#do i feel the existential dread and have to sit with it even more and actually think about it ? yeah

[autistic-shaiapouf]

Wondering if I feel weird about jobs bc I have almost exclusively worked high stress high turnover jobs

[eruanee]

ngl. the fact i don't really care about going on social media anymore is one of the best thing that ever happened to me

[pyrrhiccomedy]

the one thing I have heard probably the most consistently, from the most people, since being diagnosed with breast cancer, is that I have a "good attitude;" meaning, that I make jokes about having cancer, which makes whoever is listening to me feel better about the fact that I have cancer.

Here's the thing - the worst part of having cancer (so far, in my experience - I'll update as this progresses) is having to live with the constant, oppressive dread that right now, somewhere in my body, a cancer cell is taking root in my bones, or in my lungs. That it will silently grow, and spread, and eventually become rampant and untreatable, killing me decades before my time, and I won't know that I'm on that course until it's too late to do anything about it. That I will have to leave my wife alone, that she will have to watch me die painfully and without dignity, and that I will leave this world without having had the time to see so much of what makes it beautiful and strange.

this is not a funny thought!

However, the second worst part of having cancer is - okay, so they removed the tumor, right, and at the same time, they also removed a clump of lymph nodes in my armpit. They do that to test whether or not the cancer has spread. So coming out of surgery, I have two incision sites: one above where the tumor was, and the other one on my trunk right about where your bra passes under your arm.

And that means I'm not allowed to wear deodorant for ten days.

Imagine me: stinky, in my bed. I am an adult woman with a beating heart. I will not claim I have any greater share of dignity or wisdom than a typical example of my cohort, but I have lived and learned and erred, and amassed a small collection of accomplishments which I would not be ashamed to present to God at my reckoning, should such a being exist, and should such a reckoning take place. Times when I have shown meaningful kindness to someone when it would have been more convenient or popular to do nothing. Times when I have told a necessary truth to my own painful detriment. Things I have made that possessed, to at least a meager measure, a glimmer of genuine beauty. Trust I have earned, and not betrayed. I'm not a saint, but my soul is not nothing, and as I am forced to reckon with my own mortality in a way that few people my age ever do, I, like - I smell pretty bad? And like - my armpit is, like, clammy. I mean, how long has it been since you didn't wear deodorant for multiple days. There's a change in texture that I was not expecting. Just in the right armpit! The left armpit is fine, she gets to have deodorant.

But like, stress makes the B.O. situation not so hot, and I'm medically prohibited from doing the one thing that would rectify the situation. I own deodorant. It's right over there. I can see it from where I'm sitting. I am sure you understand of course that I am immersed in greater miseries. Even aside from the existential dread of having cancer - the incisions are painful. I'm very tired. I have two blown-out veins from when the anesthesiologist struggled to find a workable injection site before the surgery, so I have some wild bruising, and I can't really bend my left arm. But these are afflictions with some dignity. To have pain or fatigue after surgery is rather ennobled in the common discourse. But - do I have to smell like ham, too?

Must I smell like rank ham?

Of course the solution to the ham smell is just to take more showers, but bathing after surgery presents its own category of woes, which are also not particularly dignified. And it's here, caught betwixt the Scylla and Charybdis of 'smelling like old meat' and 'unwinding my boob from its surgical sling to take another ride around the wet room rodeo' that I find the humor in my situation. The feeble ape rails against her trivial but intractable stink!

And that humor spreads - much like cancer! - to everything else that it touches. It is, actually, very funny to tell someone that the joke Christmas gift they got for me is probably what gave me cancer. It's funny, when people find out I got my diagnosis on January 2nd, to blandly follow that up with "--So, 2024, not off to a great start, but 2025 is going to be my year." It's funny, when someone invites me to something we both know I probably don't want to go to, to suck air between my teeth and go, "Ooh, I would, but, you know--the cancer. Yeah, I can feel it flaring up right now. Maybe next time."

Things are funny when they subvert your expectations. People expect you to treat your cancer diagnosis very gravely, and so it's funny - to them, and to me - when I don't. And then they tell me I have "a great attitude."

"You'll be fine," I've heard over and over again. "You have a great attitude. That's the most important thing, in this kind of a situation - keeping a great attitude."

I certainly hope that's true! There is definitely plenty of science to support the idea that a positive mental attitude has an impact on health outcomes. I think the effectiveness of modern chemotherapy drugs, and the extent to which my particular cancer responds to them, will have a significantly larger impact; and that moreover, it's probably prudent to remember that people with great attitudes die of cancer every day. But I will not turn my nose up at a percentage point or two perhaps coming from the willingness to crack jokes about all the cancer I've got, and how surprised I was to learn that I'd got it.

As I suggested up top, I know that when people say "you have a great attitude," they sometimes genuinely mean that they are pleased to find me in a mental state that might increase my chances of recovering from a deadly disease, but mostly they mean "thanks for not being a huge bummer about your cancer. I appreciate you for not ruining my day about it." And I'm completely okay with that. Like, yeah - I am deliberately sparing you from the burden of having to Take Seriously my life-threatening condition. You're welcome. I, too, would rather avoid this conversation on one of the finite number of Thursdays God has seen fit to grant unto the measure of our lives. What the fuck are you supposed to do about any of this?

(Shout out to my one good work buddy who, on hearing the news, instantly responded with "Oh my god, Geri Hallwell aka Ginger Spice also got breast cancer young! You're like twins!" Thus far he is the only person who has said something in response to the news that actually made an immediate, positive impact.)

So anyway, obviously all I ever say in response to "you have a great attitude" is "Thanks! I'm just focusing on the positives and taking it a day at a time." Because that's true, and moreover, it's all anyone needs to hear.

What I'd like to say - not to them, because there's no point in burdening them any further than the embarrassing reminder of death burdens anyone - but maybe to someone, maybe just to You, maybe that's why I'm writing this -

What I'd like to say is: dogg, you have no idea how subverted my expectations have been lately. How could I not find this funny?

How profoundly alienated from the absurdity of death would I have to be to not laugh about this?

Like - I know this is so stupid, but listen: I could die. No, no - listen - no I know everyone dies - but like - are you listening? Are you actually listening? I could die. I could die. I could die. I could die.

Isn't that so funny? Isn't that actually so funny?

And this - this attitude that I'm in, right now, this one right here, where shaking my head ruefully and marveling at the - maybe belated, but I think probably actually quite premature - realization that oh no, 'everyone dies' means for me too, huh - and laughing at myself for never, apparently, really grasping that until now, and laughing at the incredible statistical unlikelihood my cancer - I've never won anything before! - and laughing at how woefully ill-prepared most people are to respond to news like this, and laughing about how, of everything terrible about cancer, the actual number-two-on-the-list worst thing about it so far is that I can't put on deodorant -

Is this the great attitude you're talking about?

I'm not angry, I'm not resentful, I'm curious, I'm really curious. Do you understand why I'm laughing?

[sixpossumsinatrenchcoat]

B Plot

Isabeau still can’t confess, and Siffrin needs to clear their head. Which means it’s high time for a sidequest. 

Act 1, Scene 2. West Dormont. Isa’s hand hovers near your shoulder. You try to look inviting, but you must not be very good at it. He’s already pulling away. Okay. This is it. Go time. “You can touch me,” you blurt out. “Wh— Hwhuh???” No turning back now. “It just. Seems like you think you can’t? But—you can.”

(Full disclosure, this is literally just 5k words of Siffrin trying to flirt, because he's not the only one who needed a break. Spoilers thru Act 3)

You don’t make the pun for Isa. You don’t say hi to Loop, either. You just sit on the ground and stare at the grass.

“Wow, stardust,” Loop snorts, “thanks for the warm welcome. I missed you too! But tone it down a little, will you? All that enthusiasm could get a little overwhelming!”

Near your foot, there’s a leaf growing out from a fallen branch, glossy and bright like it thinks it’s still attached to the tree. Like it thinks it’s still alive. But of course you know better. It’s already dead. It just doesn’t know it yet.

“Sooo~, what’s up? Give me the scoop! The latest and greatest, teehee!”

The leaf is always growing out of the branch, and the branch is always on the ground, splintered and slowly drying. Does the loop last long enough for the leaf to dry out, too? Does it die every day, like you do? Or will it spend the rest of eternity in a state of blissful ignorance?

“You beat the King again, right? That’s cool! You’re getting pretty tough! Keep it up and pretty soon you’ll have nothing to be scared of! Aside from, you know. All the existential dread.”

You watch your hand reach out to close around the leaf. It comes loose with a gentle pop.

“Oh, come on, at least pretend to listen. You’re good at that, teehee!” When you still don’t react, their tone sours. “The silent treatment is really not a cute look on you, you know.”

Even with nothing to hold onto, the leaf still looks offensively alive. You crumple it between your hands and then shred it into tiny little pieces. There. Now it’s just like you.

—There’s a startling clap! as Loop claps their hands about an inch from your left ear.

“Stardust,” they say firmly. “I’m a patient star, I really am, but if you keep ignoring me, I’m going to get grouchy.”

Very slowly, you look up. “She didn’t know anything.”

“...The head housemaiden?”

You nod.

“About Time Craft, you mean?”

Another nod.

“Oh,” Loop says softly. “Well. I suppose that’s to be expected. Maybe no one does, anymore.”

You shrug.

“B-But you still have leads, don’t you? Didn’t you have a few more questions for the K—”

“I don’t want to talk to the King.” The last time you tried to talk to the King, your actors looked at you like you were something monstrous. Subhuman. Like something they’d scraped off the bottom of their shoes. You wound up letting him kill you just to end the loop faster. But you’d forgotten how much the King’s final blow hurts.

“Okay, but—”

“Will you stop?” you demand. You don’t want to talk about this. You just want—

—but there’s no point finishing that sentence.

The two of you sit in silence for a while. Probably you hurt Loop’s feelings. Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Stardust,” Loop says at last, unexpectedly gently. When you glance up, they’re looking away, picking at the—not skin—the gummy celestial membrane that covers the pads of their fingers. They don’t have a mouth, but if they did, it would be frowning. “I think you might need a break.”

“Haha!!!! Ahaha!!!!! Do you think???”

“I don’t mean from the loops,” Loop says impatiently. “I just mean… Ohh, I don’t know. From fighting the loops? Of course I can’t directly relate, but—from an outside perspective, I think that trying to break the loop is probably sort of… not-good. Ah. Psychologically.”

You stare at them in stony silence.

“So maybe you need a B plot!”

“…A what?”

“You know. A B plot! Like in plays? It’s what the side characters get up to while the important people are off dying and falling in love and things!”

Wait. “You watch plays?”

“I am a star of culture, you know,” Loop sniffs. “I just think you could use a win! Take a break from fixing the laws of physics to focus on something a little more achievable, hmm~? Just for a few loops! Just to clear your head!”

Your mouth scrunches to one side. Unfortunately, they’ve caught your interest. “Like what.”

“Like, ah… oh! What about your touch therapy? That was fun, wasn’t it? Here, look, I could hold both your hands!”

“It doesn’t count,” you mutter.

“Oh, no? And whyever not?”

“It just doesn’t.” You can’t really explain why Loop doesn’t count. You just know that they don’t. The first time they elbowed you, you didn’t even flinch. To be honest, it barely registered. Like knocking your elbow against something not alive, or trying to tickle yourself.

Loop rolls their eyes. “I’ll try not to take that personally.”

* * *

They’re right, though. You need a break. But you’re not going to get it by holding hands with Loop.

* * *

You spend the rest of the day thinking about how to take a break from a temporal prison that is categorically, explicitly inescapable.

“Umm,” Isa whispers over dinner. “Sif? Are you, um, okay? You seem a little off.”

You probably should have expected this. Isabeau is always paying attention to what you’re doing and not-doing. But it never goes anywhere, because he’s too afraid to say it.

…Oh. Is that anything? You think it might be something. You already know that Isa wants to touch you. But he doesn’t, because he thinks you don’t want him to. Because you can’t tell him, and he can’t ask. So instead you’re both stuck here, not knowing what’s true.

What would it take to make him brave enough to say it? How obvious would you have to be before he could feel safe?

Your eyes narrow. Maybe you really do need a break.

You can read the rest on ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55543246

[johnwickb1tsch]

Vino Veritas - Part III

A Destination Wedding Frank x Fem!Reader Fic

Attending the wedding of your ex-fiancé gets slightly better when you meet someone having just as miserable a time as you... Warnings: Nothing too serious holy shit. Cursing. Broken engagement. Nihilism, existential bullshit, copious amounts of sarcasm. NSFW. Angst. Grump/sunshine trope. Loosely based on the movie but I'm not that smart. Or bitter. 😆 chapter map.

III. Just what the world needs, Another Fucking Sunset Wedding

It’s almost sweet. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think Frank had been waiting for you to catch the shuttle to the wedding venue, dallying in the lobby pretending to look at an atrocious modern art print while keeping one eye on the hallway.

“You look nice,” he grumbles, taking in your white A-line sundress printed with big red roses.

“Thanks,” you say, admiring his navy blue suit unabashedly, since he brought it up first. “You look very handsome.”

This makes him stand up a little straighter, clearly not sure how to take the compliment, but you dare to think, he liked it.

When the shuttle drops you off at the base of the vineyard you look up the steep hill planted with curling grape vines in their nice neat rows with a sense of dread.

“Fuck.”

“What?”

“I am not wearing the right shoes for this.”

He looks down at your platform heels. “It said in the itinerary you’d have to walk up a hill.”

“Ok, but what was I supposed to wear? Hiking boots? The unfair standards of women’s dress clothes don’t allow for that.”

He holds out a hand, albeit begrudgingly. “Come on. I’ll help you.”

“I swear, these shoes are actually usually the sensible option.”

“Sure they are. Wearing anything that elevates your feet four inches off the ground is a sensible option.”

You sigh, and take his hand, trying to ignore the thrill running through your bones as you feel the strength in his fingers and his arm, as he helps propel you up the incline.

“I can’t believe they don’t have…stairs, or something? Did the old people have to do this?”

“Presumably not.”

“Then what the fuck?”

“Quite.”

Men’s dress shoes aren’t exactly made for rough terrain either, and at one point you both almost slip, clutching each other in a bid not to tumble back down the hill. It’s…nice, you have to admit, to be held close by this man.

He looks at you with wide eyes, for a moment for all the world appearing as though he’s drowning, before that thunderous frown appears. “Fuck this.”

You yip with surprise as he sweeps you up into his arms, and marches determinedly the rest of the way up the hill. Before you can even think about taking it as a romantic gesture, he practically drops you back to your feet at the top, releasing you as though you’d burned him.

You sit together in the back, as usual, though Frank very pointedly crosses his arms and is careful to keep a respectable amount of distance between you.

That shouldn’t make you feel sad, but it does.

The excruciatingly drawn-out bullshit Reception

“I used to like this song,” you muse, watching the dancers on the floor with an odd mixture of wistfulness and distaste. Keith dips his new bride, and a mean little part of you really wishes he would drop her.

“Do you…want to dance?”

Frank could have knocked you over with a feather, after how he’d behaved earlier. It definitely colors your answer, the knee-jerk impulse to push him away too.

“I said I used to like it.”

“Fine.”

Then, of course, you feel bad. And maybe you feel…a sliver of hope, however stupid.

“Why, do you want to dance?”

“Of course I don’t want to dance. It’s moronic and ridiculous. No one wants to fucking dance.” There is more venom in this statement, than perhaps the situation calls for.

After a moment, a bit softer and with a hint of apology, he qualifies, “I just thought it might take your mind off things.”

If you looked miserable, it’s ironic that for once, Keith was not the cause of it.

Perhaps this should send you running in the opposite direction too.

“Do you want to take a walk?” you ask instead.

He looks pointedly down at your questionable footwear, but you point at the basket behind you bearing what are professed by a whimsically written sign: Walking Shoes. They’re some kind of slide on deal that will do in a pinch. Honestly you’re willing to go bare foot, if it gets you out of that tent.

The meandering and pointless Walk

“You know, I was actually diagnosed with PTSD after the whole Keith thing?”

Frank snorts at that, the farthest reaction from sympathy he can manage. “Rich people’s PTSD.”

“I’m not rich.”

“Fine. Privileged.”

That’s probably true. Goddammit.

“Well…am I not allowed to have problems?”

“Sure, just no one wants to hear about them. Anyone who doesn’t have to worry about food, housing, or getting shot by the police should just keep it to themselves.”

“That’s not very healthy.”

He shrugs. “It’s not just you. No one should care about my problems either.”

“What if I care?”

He snorts. “Then I will feel even sorrier for you than I already do.”

“Ok, fine. Maybe not me specifically. But what if…say, you find someone else you actually like. Isn’t it ok to talk about your problems with friends?”

“Isn’t that a terrible thing to do to someone you like? Making friends or a significant other listen to your problems for free, when you should be paying a shrink for it?”

“It’s just a thing people do who are close to each other. They talk.”

“People who aren’t close too, apparently.” He says all this with a surprising amount of cheer in his tone, either enjoying himself, or the walk, or the view…or maybe even your company.  

He changes the subject as you round a bend. “So, are you glad you came to this thing? You made your show of strength, you’ve got your closure now that the knot is tied and they’re legally bound to be miserable together, and you’ve fled the scene with his half-brother, whom he despises, which the family surely will gossip about. You could almost chalk it as a win, if you squint just right.”

You huff, breathing a little heavy as you walk up a hill on the ridge the path follows. It truly is beautiful in the backcountry of the vineyard, rolling mountains planted with nice neat rows of green vines.

He makes a good point, but strangely…you don’t feel satisfied. “I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I’m not sure how I feel,” you admit, pausing to incline your head up at him. He pauses too, looking down that straight nose at you, and he is standing very close. You fancy you sense him tense, as though about to take some great leap, and he looks at your mouth with something like consternation, when a god-awful yowling roar travels down the path at you.

You both turn to see a very big, very unhappy cat displaying its impressively large and sharp canines at you.

“What the fuck is that?”

“I think it’s a mountain lion.”

“What the fuck do we do?”

“I don’t know. We’re too far away, no one will hear us scream.”

“Is it a bobcat?”

“It’s not a fucking bobcat. Look at the tail.”

“You should run. It’s going to eat me anyway.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m smaller and slower.”

“I wouldn’t presume about the last part.”

It roars again, and you clutch at his arm.

Suddenly Frank charges the thing, making that god-awful hissing sound from earlier with his finger in his ear. They both sound like demons from hell, and with shock you watch as the predator backs away.

“Now, we run,” says Frank, grabbing your hand and booking it down the hill.

You run what feels like a long way. Your legs are burning, and the stupid little slide-ons are not made for athletic activity. And the thing about running downhill is…sometimes gravity gets the best of you. Like now, when you trip over a rock, and take Frank with you. Suddenly you are both tumbling down a steep grassy incline, locked together in a death roll.

“Fuck!”

“Fuck!”

“Fuck!”

“Fuck!”

When at last you come to a stop you are utterly stunned. “Y/n?”

You just lie there, unable to move.

“Y/n?”

Are you even alive?

Suddenly, Frank grabs your arm, hauling you around. “Ah!”

He looks…so worried, that if he hadn’t wrenched your back, you would have been touched.

“I’m fine! Jesus!”

“Ok. Sorry.”

You lie there for another moment looking up at him. He has grass in his hair; it’s endearing somehow, seeing this put-together grouch of a man just a little undone.

“You saved me,” you tease, sitting up beside him.

“I saved us.”

“Yeah right. It would have eaten me anyway. Why’d you save me?”

“Because I’m an idiot.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Just trying to spare myself the guilt.”

He reaches up to pluck grass out of your hair. His light touch gives you a thrill down your spine. Again, you are aware that you are very close, and his dark eyes have gone wide again, that slightly panicked look he gets. His gaze flicks to your mouth, then back to your eyes, and you are completely taken by surprise when he grabs the back of your head and pulls you swiftly into a hard kiss.

He retreats from it just as quickly, and now he does look like he’s seen a ghost. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“I—”

Before you can say anything he’s grabbed you again, and this kiss is less forceful, though maybe no less desperate. You’re able to reach up to cup his cheeks before he shoves you away again, this time hard enough that you topple back in the grass.

“Hey!”

“Sorry,” he pants again, looking for all the world like a horse that would like to bolt. “I don’t—it’s been a long time. Heat of the moment. Near death experience. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“How long?” you ask, incredulous. Because, this man is so…so. Fucking. Good looking. How has he not been with anyone?

He scowls at the grass. “I don’t think I’ve felt real pleasure since 2006.”

This admission makes your eyes go wide. You sincerely hope he’s exaggerating, but then again, the way he behaves towards people…maybe he’s not.

“It’s just…” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “If it all sucks, then fuck it, but if it doesn’t? Then there’s so much pressure.”

A part of you wants to snark at him. Well well well, welcome to the human race at last. But another part of you…another part of you just wants to kiss him senseless and fuck him silly, and make him feel all the things you’ve both been missing out on because he’s been such a goddamned coward this whole time and you’re not much better.

 Maybe he reads the pity on your face, because he feels the need to defend, “Not that I haven’t been with anyone. Just…”

“You weren’t that into it?”

He looks away, glaring at the world again. “Yeah.”

“It’s been a while for me too,” you admit.

“Please don’t say it was Keith,” he snarks. “I’ll kill myself.”

You laugh. “No, your brother was incredibly, monumentally selfish in bed. I literally could have had better sex with a lamppost.”

He looks at you sideways. “That really shouldn’t make me as happy as it does.”

Your lips twist as you try not to smile. Frank, however, is back to frowning at the vineyards again. “We can’t have sex right now. I don’t have any protection. It would be irresponsible.”

You’re a little amused, that his brain has leapt immediately to sex, while you are sitting in the dry grass together. Apparently just kissing was not enough—or maybe he’s been thinking about it for a while. You’d be a liar, if you said you haven’t.

“What if I said you’re in luck?”

“I would say that’s highly improbable.”

You feel bold enough to cup his cheek, bringing his attention back to you. It doesn’t take much persuading this time, when you press your lips to his. He kisses you back, his fingers digging into your ribcage, and you’re not really sure who’s more desperate to feel alive after defying death at the claws of a tiger or whatever the fuck that thing had been.

“That’s not helping,” he pants when you part.

“Why? Are you actually into it?”

He pulls you closer with hands on your waist. “Pretty into it,” he admits begrudgingly. You smile against his mouth, suddenly feeling electrified from head to toe. The colors of the world around you seem brighter, somehow. You take him by surprise when suddenly you straddle his waist, perching on his legs and pushing him back down into the grass, your pretty skirts spread around you.

“What—”

You unbuckle his belt and undo his pants, freeing him to the desert air. “Oh…” When you bend over to lick his tip and take him into your mouth you get an even more emphatic, “Oh…”

“What about now?” you ask him as you withdraw with a pop.

He blinks, for the first time since you’ve met, speechless. At least, for a few long moments.

“I think I’d like to be inside you.”

“How’s your health?”

“Fair to middling, for a man my age.” You give him a look, and damn if he doesn’t soften for you, even if just for a fleeting second. “Clean,” he answers quietly. “You?”

“Clean. And fully armed with IUD.”

He blinks. “Like they use to blow up humvees in the Middle East?”

You laugh, throwing your head back, your curls bouncing around your shoulders. You haven’t had this much fun in a long time. “Like, an intrauterine-device?”

“That definitely makes more sense.”

“Well?”

You watch as he licks his fingers, reaching under your dress to push your panties aside and find your center. The saliva is appreciated but not necessary. You are drenched, and his big fingers rubbing your clit feel like magic. “Is all that for me?” He sounds genuinely surprised, like this was a gift from the universe he did not expect to receive. Usually it’s more inclined to deliver a kick to the balls.

“Who else would it be for? The lynx?” He snorts, and in a softer tone you confess, “I have been a wet little mess for you since…the moment we started arguing in the airport.” He blinks at this, dumbstruck for a moment, before kissing you with an edge of desperation you both feel keenly in your bones.

He guides you onto him with his big hands on your buttocks. That feels like magic too, his thick tip at your entrance sinking in. It’s your turn to say, “Oh,” with your head thrown back, his big cock sliding deeper and deeper inside you, until he’s filled you to the hilt. For a moment you just sit like that together, joined, wrapped up in each other’s arms. It’s wonderful.

You imagine how ridiculous you must look, to an outsider looking in. Two people tangled in the dirt, grass in your hair, dust all over your nice clothes. You giggle a little to yourself.

“Something funny?”

“Just…do you ever think about how silly humans look, doing the things we do?”

“All the time.”

You laugh joyously, but you feel him withdrawing from you, that subtle tension returned in his limbs. You realize he thinks you’re making fun of him. It’s like this man expects he’ll have to defend himself from the world at any given moment. Then, from what he’s told you about his life, you guess he has. You don’t let him get too far, pulling him closer. “But fuck it feels glorious. I don’t care. Fuck me, Frank. I need you.”

 You feel him relax, and maybe even surrender. He moves for you, and you with him, his thumb on your button and his mouth on your neck as you ride him out…it’s the fastest you’ve ever orgasmed, with another person involved, that shining pleasure ambushing you in the cradle of your hips and spreading outwards. It’s almost embarrassing, except he’s right behind you, holding you almost desperately with arms locked around your waist, his face buried in the bend of your neck. Neither of you are quiet about it, your yells echoing across the empty hills.

“Oh my god…” you pant, resting your forehead against his.

“Can’t say…I believe much in god,” he informs you, out of breath.

“Me neither,” you admit. “But that was fucking fantastic.”

“Yeah. That was pretty damn good.” He sounds so surprised about it.

He kisses you, more softly this time. There is a long moment of eye contact between you; it is vulnerable, and electric, and raw. He is the first to look away, almost flinchingly. Then he focuses on the business of disentangling yourselves.

“I’m afraid we’re about to make a huge mess.”

“You don’t have a handkerchief?”

“What am I, a nineteenth century dandy?”

“Okay, relax, Romeo. I’ve got it.”

You rather cleverly, if you don’t say so yourself, use the petticoat of your dress to avoid staining his trousers as you uncouple, in a way that won’t leave you an embarrassing mess when you return to the tent either.

“I like that dress even more now,” he quips, looking at you with something almost akin to tenderness as you right yourselves. He reaches up to pull another sprig of straw out of your hair with a smirk.

“Frank…” You’re not really sure what you want to say. There’s a pent up ball of something in your chest, and it kind of actually hurts, and you’re not sure you like it at all.

“No,” he answers resolutely, but he cranes his neck down to kiss you anyway. “Want to go back to my room?”

“Yes.”

TBC...

-----------------

ahhhhh I didn't have the courage to make it as awkward as the movie 🤣🤣🤣 but I feel like I need to make a note here bc i'm always writing wildly irresponsible sex practices: always use protection with a new partner. It's just a good idea. And ALWAYS use some kind of birth control, or you WILL get pregnant. mother nature is a bitch.

[angelofsmalldeaath]

wasteland, baby! — a.h.b.

cw: mentions of food (cake), kissing

“is that…” he trails off, coming to a standstill at the threshold of the kitchen. i freeze, spoon halfway to my mouth and give him a sheepish smile. 

“you weren’t supposed to be awake!”

“neither were you!” he accuses, walking in, rubbing his eyes to get rid of the sleep. his hair is matted on one side, his big old sleep t-shirt almost sliding off his shoulders. 

“you heathen,” he sits next to me on the kitchen floor, placing a quick kiss on my lips, “that cake was for tomorrow.”

i shrug, stuff another spoonful of the chocolate monstrosity in my mouth. 

“i was feeling existential. the cake helped. besides,” i scoop some more on the spoon, hold it in front of his mouth, “when did you even get this?”

he smiles and shakes his head, then takes the bite of the cake and sighs. his face relaxes, soft and pretty in the dim moonlight shining into our kitchen. “oh, that is good! i timed it for after you’d have gone to bed. so it would be a surprise.”

“it was,” i giggle, “i was absolutely delighted when i opened the fridge.”

he snorts and takes the spoon from me. just as i’m about to protest, he scoops up some of the chocolate frosting and shoves it in his mouth. then he smiles at me—a proper chocolate covered toothy grin to match my own until we both burst out laughing. 

“weren’t you calling me a heathen just now?!”

“that was before i tasted the cake,” he holds his hands up in defence. a moment later, he sobers up, clears his throat. 

“why were you feeling existential?”

“mmm, maybe because in—” i sneak a glance at the clock on the microwave, at the glowing 23:57, “—three minutes i’ll be another year older.”

“and is that so bad?”

i toy with the spoon in my hand, absently carving a circle around the cherry on the cake. “i don’t know. i wish i did though.”

he’s quiet for a bit, thinking maybe, staring at me—my face and my eyes and my lips until i shy away from his gaze. “what if it’s really really good? the happiest year of your life?”

“and after that?” i giggle “does that mean it’s all downhill from there? the beginning of the end?”

he tsks, lightly flicks me on the forehead. “why does that matter now? today?”

i shrug, eat another spoonful of cake. he takes the spoon from me and takes another bite too. 

“i suppose it doesn’t. maybe future me should deal with that existential dread. sat here on this same kitchen floor, two minutes before midnight.”

“is future you also stealing your own birthday cake?” he snorts, teasing me affectionately. 

i blow him a raspberry, and when he laughs i take him in, take in the crinkles around his eyes and the chocolate on his lips. i take in his sleepy hair and the softness of his old t-shirt—all of it so familiar, all of it made of love and love and love and—

“need me to kiss you until you forget everything else?”

“yes please!” i set the cake aside and jump in his arms.

his soft lips somehow taste sweeter than the cake. his body is warm—firm and so so familiar that i melt like there are no bones in my body. as if my body is made to fit against his, moulded to match the hollows and crevices of him, made to fit together. he caresses my cheek, smiles softly against my lips. and when he holds me close, i know he never intends on letting me go. 

“happy birthday, my love,” he whispers when i pull back to catch my breath. the clock on the microwave reads 00:00—the start of a new day, a new year too. 

“it’s a good way to start it,” i laugh and press another kiss to his lips.

“better than eating stolen cake?”

“you ask tough questions,” i tease. 

he rolls his eyes but picks up the cherry, nudges it against my mouth. “go on, you get the cherry on top.”

i bite into it, sighing at the sweetness. “i think you’re right. maybe it will be really really good.”

“you think so?” he picks up the spoon again and takes one more bite. 

“i do.” i take the spoon back from him, take my last bite. “and if it isn’t, well…at least i can be back here with you, eating stolen cake on the kitchen floor.” 

[writing-for-life]

Dream’s Therapist

Emotions

I have prepared for today’s session with going over previous notes. I decided to carefully delve deeper into the topic of the client’s own perceived emotional detachment that is so visibly not the case (he feels very clearly, even if he occasionally pretends he doesn’t. We have made some progress in last week’s session that I would like to build on).

The client is on time again (well, slightly early). When he comes into my office, the coat stays on this time. I don’t engage in small talk, as it seems his perceived preference.

DT: How has the thinking and journaling gone since last week? How have you been feeling over all?

Dream (He sits straight as an arrow and doesn’t look at me): I don't feel. I exist. Emotions are for mortals.

DT (I admit to myself that I am a tad disappointed. For him. I thought we were making progress, but it seems we are back to square one): I see. Have you been journaling, as suggested?

Dream (I notice a sigh I can only interpret as dejected): Yes. I did peruse the infernal book. “Dear Diary, a star died. It was mildly annoying.”

DT (I cannot help but think there is more to this than meets the eye and proceed with caution): I guess annoyance is a feeling?

Dream (I notice his stare is even more vacant than usual): I don't feel. The star had unresolved issues.

DT (I notice he projects and is trying to deflect at the same time): We are not talking about the star’s issues though, are we? We are talking about whatever has been going on with you, either over the past week or in general.

Dream: Not today. (The way he purses his lips is reminiscent of someone who has sucked on a lemon, and I get the feeling today’s session will be… difficult. I decide to change tack and revisit the topic dreams and nightmares since he opened, and lightened, up about them the last time.)

DT: Is there anything else you would rather talk about? Your nightmares? Your dreams?

Dream: I don't dream. I weave tapestries of existential dread.

DT (It’s really going backwards now): And what do these tapestries tell you?

Dream (I notice he crosses one leg over the other and leans back in his chair. Not without also crossing his arms in front of his chest): That my thread count is impeccable.

DT (I notice extreme defensiveness and decide on a different course of action): Are you open to trying an exercise?

Dream (I notice the eye-roll): If I must.

DT: There are no “musts” in here. You either decide to give it a shot or you don’t.

Dream (And there is the exhale through his nose): Fine.

DT: Okay. I’d like you to get comfortable in your chair…

Dream (I notice he moves around on his sitbones a bit): Your chairs are not very conducive to comfort.

DT (The chairs are actually very comfortable. He just decided they’re not comfortable for him because he doesn’t want them to be): Get as comfortable as possible then. (I notice some further shuffling, and when he finally settles, his legs are not crossed anymore. His arms, however, stay firmly crossed in front of his chest). If it’s comfortable for you, close your eyes.

Dream: What if it is not?

DT: In that case, keep them open. (I notice he keeps on staring at me, so I decide to just proceed): I’d like you to bring up a kitten playing with a ball of yarn in your mind.

Dream (He actually snorts. I am briefly confused at the unexpected display of amusement. He blinks slowly.): Really?

DT (I mirror his blink): Really.

Dream (He unexpectedly closes his eyes. A brief silence ensues): I can see it. The kitten's existential crisis is palpable.

DT: What else do you sense or feel?

Dream (I notice he opens his eyes and just stares at me. Again…) I feel nothing. Perhaps the kitten should consider therapy, not I.

DT (I decide to call things by their name): What do you think makes you avoid being vulnerable? Around anyone, but specifically around me? (He looks at the paperweight on my desk. I ignore it. The silence lasts for three minutes.) You don’t have to be here if you prefer not to, but you are taking these sessions for a reason. Can you verbalise that reason for me again? (I notice he mumbles something indistinguishable while looking at his boots.) Pardon?

Dream (He looks out the window, clearly avoiding eye-contact, and raises his voice ever so slightly.) I feel uninspired.

DT (I withstand the temptation to point out that he just admitted he feels): And would you like any type of support with feeling more inspired again, or do you think you will be able to solve the issue yourself?

Dream (He looks at me again. Barely. With a dipped chin and through his lashes.): I might appreciate your… expertise.

DT: The delusional one?

Dream (I notice he smiles. A small smile, but it is the first one that is clearly identifiable as such): That, too.

DT: Okay, then let’s keep going and dig a bit deeper. Without deflection and changing the topic—do you think you can do that?

Dream (I notice the smile disappears): I might try.

DT (I nod towards the paperweight): Can you try to pick it up? (He picks it up hesitantly.) No, I said, “Can you try to pick it up.” (He puts it down again and looks confused.) Try again. (He lifts it once more and holds on to it this time.) So did you try, or did you pick it up?

Dream (I notice his eyebrows are knotted so tightly I start to feel sorry for him.): I picked it up?

DT: Right. There is doing or not doing. There is no “trying”. You do something, or you don’t. You trust me or you don’t. Both is fine. You do it, or you don’t. You stop to deflect to get out of discomfort, or you don’t. You pick up the paperweight, or you don’t. It’s always your choice, but it’s a choice you make.

Dream (I notice he stares at me, then the paperweight): I… chose to pick up the weight, and I shall hold on to it for a while.

DT: Good. Let's keep going then. Tell me about your relationships.

Dream (I notice his eyes darting at me quicker than the speed of light. I also notice the paperweight moves in his hands. The silence lasts for seven minutes. He holds on to the paperweight very tightly for a moment and then begins to speak): I had relationships of a romantic nature. To hold on to them has proven to be impossible.

DT: Any idea as to why?

Dream (I notice his voice is very quiet): Because my… feelings (he looks at me briefly before he turns his attention to the paperweight again) are complicated, and they tend to scatter like cosmic dust.

DT: I’ve noticed you like to speak in metaphor…

Dream: As do you.

DT: Do I?

Dream: Sometimes.

DT: And does speaking like that, or being spoken to that way, make things easier for you?

Dream: Yes and no.

DT: Explain the no.

Dream: Perhaps I… would appreciate a more direct approach. But it makes me uncomfortable nonetheless.

DT: Discomfort isn’t always a bad thing. If you stay comfortable all the time, nothing changes.

Dream (I notice a sound not unlike a wince): I do not change.

DT: I am aware I asked this before, but why are you here then?

Dream (I notice he turns the paperweight in his hands): Because I feel like the kitten.

DT (I need a hot second to remember): You feel you have an existential crisis?

Dream (He stays quiet for seven minutes again. I wonder if he is actually counting seconds in his head): I might have diversified into a certain sense of ennui. (I notice he smiles briefly, but it actually looks weary.)

DT: Any idea as to why that is? Or what might provide relief? (I notice he stares intently at the paperweight again) Why the paperweight?

Dream (He reflexively puts it back on my desk): It reminds me of things.

DT: Good memories or bad?

Dream: Perhaps both (I notice his eyes disengage, and he vacantly stares out the window again.)

DT: Is it something you wish to talk about?

Dream (He looks at me again): I trust our time is up?

DT: No. But if you feel the need to leave, that’s okay. I’d just like to encourage you to think about whether your ennui is as practised as your avoidance.

Dream (He gets up and looks down at me in a fairly disgruntled way): Perhaps you might reflect whether your persistence is annoying.

DT: Well, you’re not paying me to humour you, are you?

Dream (I notice he seems to think for a second, and inexplicably, his face lightens up. If that’s possible at all, because his expressions hover on the micro-spectrum): Perhaps you do humour me. (I wonder if he is actually smiling again or just looks mildly pissed off.)

DT: I suggest I might be the wrong person if you are looking for entertainment. But if you are committed enough to this, I will use ink in my diary again and see you next week. Same time.

Dream (I notice he definitely smiles this time): If the universe doesn't implode by then. (The smile vanishes as quickly as it has appeared, and I am left mildly concerned he might actually believe that’s a possibility.)

After he has left, I begin to write down further notes. Something catches my eye. It looks like sparkly dust suspended in mid-air. I have a lot of questions…

< Previous Session

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[allthenamesithinkofaretaken]

Wally, Darling ♥

That's how you know

Wally Darling x F! Architect! Reader

[This is the best I could think of, I’m sorry T-T.

Wally’s proposal to MC after almost a year of dating. Warning, I switch to the MC and to Wally's POV a lot in this do I hope you don't mind. Plus it's long. ]

He’d been fiddling with the navy blue box for days now, and every time his fingers even grazed against it, it sent a flurry of excitement, nervousness, and fear in his heart that he never knew of until today. Always having to bear with hiding it somewhere she won’t see it because of the emotions that wracked through him at the thought of the proposal alone.

He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep, hell, he couldn’t even draw or paint without the feeling of dread filling his stomach that no amount of existential dread could ever think of giving him.

It was worrying how this frightened him more than when he first stumbled upon the rift between their reality and the other side, but then again, he’d never have to risk losing the rift if he asks it to marry him, which would be a silly thing to do in the first place. But if he makes the wrong move, if he makes the wrong move, then he’d have to bear with losing one of the most important people in his life.

He clutched the box in his hand, letting out an exhausted sigh at the frustrating thoughts that ran rampant around his head as he presses that box against his unsteady heart, his back pressing against the harsh wood of the tree trunk he was currently sitting against. His sketchpad opened in an empty page he’d been fiddling around with for the past twenty minutes out of nervousness, unable to properly picture out a figure to draw because of the fear that muddled his brain. Usually painting helped him clear his mind, but because he was so stressed, he couldn’t think of anything to paint. It was the most frustrating thing he’s experienced in his life.

“Wally!” Julie’s excited screech makes him jump, the box stumbling out of his tight hold and he’d fumbled to catch it back in his hands, the box not going unnoticed by the blonde.

“You still haven’t asked her?” Her voice was dulled down to a harsh whisper, her hands gripping at the strands of hair on the sides of her face as she looked at her friend in a panic. “It’s been a week!”

Wally tucked the blue box somewhere inside his blue cardigan, pressing a hand against his still heavily beating heart to hopefully try and calm it down.

“I’m trying to find the perfect opportunity,” He replied, fiddling with the buttons of his shirt. “It’s just… I don’t think she deserves a simple proposal. I want to make it special… but all the things I think of are too dull, or boring, or not enough…”

He itched to tug at his hair, but seeing that he put so much work into it earlier today with (Y/n) helping him in brushing it into its usual style, he settled on pulling the grass beneath them instead, the nervousness building up into that imperfection frustration he’s always seemed to have. Although he’s never seen it aimed at any other subject other than his paintings and art.

“Wally,” Julie’s voice was reprimanding, slightly upset, but there was a familiar softness tinged at the way she spoke his name that he could tell that it was bordering on pity. “I’m not telling you how to propose, and you should do it how you want to do it, but I’m sure that (Y/n) will love whatever you come up with!”

And yet here he was, still unable to think of a proper way to pop the question. His hands tucked underneath his cardigan to feel for the box that pressed against his chest, wondering if he would ever work up the courage to finally ask.

He had thought about the question so many times, so much so that he basically had it imprinted in his brain. But still, that important question didn’t come alone when it came to plaguing his brain.

The 'will you marry me?' was always being followed by the what ifs that echoed in the back of his brain. 'what if she says no?', 'what if she's not actually ready?', 'what if she leaves and doesn't come back?'. Stupid question, he knew that much. After all, they’ve already talked about this once or twice recently—The topic always being brought up everytime by either one of the neighbors or their families whenever they called, and they’ve both always come to the same conclusion. They are ready. None of them knew just when it was going to happen. Or if it was even going to happen.

And so here he was.

But despite that, no matter how many times he’s thought back to the times they’ve talked, the times where he’s heard her affirmations of the idea, it always brought that sense of doubt, dread, and especially fear in his stomach.

And all those questions, he's realized, were all coming from the same fear. The fear of possibly losing her. Losing the one thing that's kept him grounded all his life would drag him into a deeper void he knows he wouldn't be able to climb out of, bury him in his sorrows and dig its way into his darkest urges. Not that he thinks he has any.

The sound of Julie's sigh brings him back to their reality, and he realizes he's been fiddling with the wedding band in between his fingers, the box long forgotten on the grass. He carefully puts it back in its place, cradling the thing as if it were a small child.

“Well, I can’t force ya to do it now,” she shrugged. “But I think the perfect way to propose to someone is to just do it how you want to do it. No thinking of wanting things to be too perfect, or too special— because I’m sure it already is,” she places her hand on Wally’s shoulder, and he looks up at her, taking her words into consideration.

He searched for the box in the pocket of his cardigan, eyes looking down at the grass as he clutched it in his palm.

In a way, Julie was right.

Seeing the newfound determination set in his eyes, Julie grinned, an idea already forming in her head.

“If you’re thinking of doing it today, I think Sally would love to assist you with her play tonight.”

She was helping Howdy in organizing some of the new wares he has for his store— a 'thank you' for the bags of apples he had given her yesterday that she had made into delicious caramel apples and caramel apple cookies that Wally was more than delighted to eat up, while the rest were given away to the neighborhood because she knows that Wally would get a stomach ache if he ate all those sweets. And he would've, had she not managed to try and pry him away from all the apple flavored sweets she had made that day.

"How time surely does fly, doesn't it?" Howdy brings her out of her train of thought as he comes walking back inside his store with a sack full of pears thrown over his shoulder, carefully setting it down beside one of the stalls as he pats four of his hands together. "I can't believe it's already been a year and a half since you moved here!"

Oh, wow. Has time really moved that fast?

"Even I'm a bit surprised at the news, Howdy." She places a hand on her forehead, brows raised as she goes to count the months for confirmation. And, lo and behold, it has been a year and a half! "Gee, that long huh?"

"It must feel like yesterday when Wally first asked you out, if you’re that surprised!" Howdy teased, grinning from ear to ear as he carefully stacks the pears in a neat pile on one of the boxes outside, and she goes to help him with the rest.

"It does, if I'm being honest," she chuckled. "I still can't believe it. That would mean that it's also been 11 months since our first date!" She brushes her thumb against the surface of the pear, getting lost in thought as she stares at its shiny surface. "Almost a year now, huh."

She wondered…

"You stare at that pear any longer then I might just tell Wally to marry you then and there!" Howdy joked, and it brought a warmth to her cheeks as she goes to swat his hand away that threatened to ruffle her hair. "You two have a knack for staring at fruit."

"I just zoned out," she rolled her eyes playfully at the caterpillar, who snickered as she finally placed the pear where it should be. "But anyways, is there anything left to arrange?" She pushes herself up to her feet, careful as to not put her weight on the box of pears in fear that it would tumble over and ruin her and Howdy's good work.

"Afraid not! That's all I have left for the day." Howdy wipes his hands on a towel, grinning as he eyes the organization they've done for the bodega. "I say, you do have an eye for arrangement! The bodega hasn't looked this organized in years!"

She gave him a playful wink, "Well, it's kind of my job to organize and design, so…" she crossed her arms over her chest. "But honestly, I've never organized a shop before." The laugh that escaped her was light, and Howdy gave her a pat on the back.

"Well you did a great job! The neighborhood is lucky to have you here!." He gave a wink and a gentle nudge, and she couldn't help but feel warm and giddy at the compliment, muttering a small goodbye and a wave to Howdy as he entered the shop once again and she went to leave to find Sally. Hopefully, she could help out with the stage the star was fussing to her about, only to bump into an overly excited Julie who tugged her into her home instead.

"Julie!" She gasped in shock, dizzied by the excitement of the blonde. “What’s going on?”

“I have a new makeup kit!” Julie practically screamed in excitement, and Frank (has he always been there?) shakes his head with a small sigh, grabbing (Y/n) by the shoulders and then nudging her to the sofa. “Oh! And Frank wants to talk to you about a beautiful arch with flowers and vines that’ll surely attract a lot of butterflies!”

“Really?” She arched a brow. The idea didn’t sound too bad, but then… “Where will you put it?”

“Oh that doesn’t matter right now!” Frank waves his hand dismissively, holding out a book in his hands. They were filled with colorful flowers, most of which were unfamiliar to her, but they all looked very pretty and vibrant. “There are plenty of beautiful flowers to put into the arch, but I can’t decide which ones!”

“Firstly, we need to know how big the arch is going to be,” she tilted her head to the side, her hands already itching for a pencil and paper so she could draft the ideas she was already thinking of. There were so many possibilities!

She turned to Frank at the question, awaiting his answer.

“Hm, I suppose something a little over my height. It should also fit about two people in the middle.”

“Oh! Is this a surprise for Eddie?” The grin on her lips were from ear to ear, and the thought made Frank’s cheeks darken while Julie simply snickered at her obliviousness.

“It could be,” Frank scoffed, trying to wave his flustered demeanor away from all the attention she was currently giving it, “Back to the arch.”

She had to struggle to look back at the book that Frank was telling her all about, all while Julie happily put makeup on her, the blonde oftentimes butting in their conversation to give ideas of her own. Which gave both (Y/n)’s brain and neck a break from all the strain at going back and forth with these two.

And after what felt like a whole day of having to design this beautiful garden arch she didn’t even know what Frank was going to use for, Julie finally finished, ending with an excited squeal as she handed over a round mirror for (Y/n) to hold.

(Y/n) fathomed at the face that looked back at her in the mirror, unable to help the grin that tugged at her lips as she stared at the wonderful work Julie had done.

“I look amazing!”

“Of course you do, girl!” Julie grinned, giving her a wink as she pointed at her with finger guns, before remembering something with an excited gasp, eyes basically filling with stars as she grinned. “Oh! I also have the perfect dress for you to wear!”

(Y/n) doesn't even get to protest as Julie drags her up the stairs and into her room, the doorbell echoing just behind them as Julie basically shoves her into her wardrobe.

“Frank can go get the door, for now though…” Julie grins, eyes basically sparkling with both mischief and excitement as she wracks through her own wardrobe. “We have to get you all dolled up for tonight!”

She would’ve laughed at the unintentional joke if she wasn’t so confused as to why Julie was suddenly making her do this.

Apparently, all that makeover was for Sally’s play tonight. And Julie wanted her to look her best for some reason. However, she wasn’t one to turn down a free makeover, and she was sure Wally would love to see her in a new getup than she was normally in. It had been a while since she’d dressed and prepared like this.

Julie pushes her towards the front row seats, a light laugh escaping her lips as the blonde seemed to drag her all the way over there with an unmistakable skip in her steps.

“Come on! Before it starts!”

She didn’t even know why Julie was rushing. It wasn’t like anyone was going to steal any of the seats! There are only 8 residents (not counting her) in Home! And it seemed that most of them were already on their seats— just behind the ones Julie was dragging her to.

Weird.

And where’s Wally? He wasn’t usually one to skip Sally’s plays…

“Oh! It’s starting!” Julie’s playful smack on her arm brings her attention back to the stage, the dimming of the stage lights rendering their surroundings in darkness until a spotlight shines on the usual star of the show. Sally Starlet.

Usually, when Sally does a play, she enters the stage with her costume already worn on her person, this time however, she was wearing her usual clothes, her hands clutching a microphone which she so happily grins upon as she scans the neighborhood, eyes ultimately landing on her.

“Welcome, everyone!” Sally greets, “A lot of you have come here to see the finale of the romantic play I’ve written— and you will! I promise you that!” (Y/n) couldn’t help but snicker at the star’s usual showmanship, eyes following her as the sun seemed to pace from one end of the stage to the other as she spoke, hands moving with every rise of her tone. “But tonight, I want to use this chance to help our dear friend in making this night very special for both of them, as some of you may already know.” The star gave a wink to one of the people in the crowd and (Y/n) couldn’t help but laugh as Julie gave an excited scream. Other than that though, she was also more than intrigued at where this was going.

“And so! I am giving up the stage for the night to our neighborhood’s absolute most! Wally Darling!”

Her breath hitched as her brows raised in surprise, watching as the red curtains unveiled to reveal her darling clutching a different microphone in his hand. She was a few feet away from the stage, but she didn’t need to be within 2 feet of Wally to notice just how nervous he looked as he stood in the middle of the spotlights, watching him tug at the collar of his suit as he clears his throat on the mic.

“Hello…” he starts, and when his eyes meet hers, she gave a small and reassuring smile. She didn’t know why he was up there, or what his plan was, but the smile she gave him seemed more than enough to wipe all the nervousness from his face away as his hunched shoulders slightly squared as he fixed his posture, hearing him let out a breath to let the nervousness out of his body as he continued. “So… I’m not the best when it comes to expressing myself… but, tonight is very special, so I’ll try my absolute best.”

His eyes meet hers once again, and her heart jumped.

Special? Was it their anniversary?

No… it couldn’t be, she had that marked next next week! She was already planning on taking Wally out to a date at a nearby observatorium!

“(Y/n),” the sound of her name echoing through the speakers makes her turn her attention back to Wally. “Do you remember what you said to me the first time we met?”

She gave a slow nod.

“You offered to help me fix a hinge I accidentally broke,” He chuckled. “After that, I was sure Home already liked you more than they liked me.”

A cacophony of silent chuckles comes from behind her, and she couldn’t help but join in.

“Then that night, we had a sleepover because it rained, and you couldn’t go home.”

She snickered, looking up at Wally with a brow arched, her hand moving in a rolling motion as if telling him to go on, and he huffed.

“... and also because Home locked you in.”

“And ever since then we’ve been by each other’s side until tonight,” He continued, and she could feel someone nudging her shoulder. When she turned around to see the culprit, she saw Poppy, waving at her and ushering her to go up the stage, her brows rising in surprise as she points at the stage behind her, and the bird nods her head in response.

She turned back to face Wally, who seemed to be looking at her expectantly, and that was enough to get her to stand, slowly walking over to the side and then up the stage where she could properly be by his side, his attention fully turned towards her as he takes her hand into his own and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“(Y/n),” she looked at him expectantly, unable to hide the worry in her eyes as he looks up at her, more nervous than she’d ever seen him be. “We have a lot in common, a lot more than what others know about.”

She knows what he was referring to. What he could see, what she could feel, what the other side of the line could offer them.

“We love art, though we both practice two different kinds of it. We love sitting quietly near the fireplace, eating or sketching, because it’s one of the most calming experiences a person could have. And we love doing a lot of things together.” He paused, scratching the back of his neck as a light pink dusted his cheeks. “And there are a lot more things we could love to do together.”

“And we also have our differences,” He cups her cheek, and she could already feel the tears swelling in her eyes at the way he just lovingly looks up at her, her heart pounding so much against her chest that she could feel it as if it were about to explode. “I love all of you, each and every part, but I’m afraid there’s one difference we have that’s bothered me for quite some time now.”

Her brows creased together, worry evident in her eyes as she looked at him in confusion.

“Your last name,”

He dropped down on one knee, and she could feel the world around her as if it were spinning and her knees threatened to buckle under her.

“But I intend on changing that soon,” He shyly looks away as he holds out the blue box towards him, the golden band shining underneath the spotlight. “If you’ll have me.”

“Of course I will!” She would’ve screamed louder than she already did if she could, jumping into Wally’s arms and sending them both tumbling down the stage as she peppers his face with kisses, a harmonious cheer echoing from past the stage as she pulls away from her bo— fiance, pulling him up off the floor as they giggled under their breaths.

Wally takes her hand in his own, giving her knuckles a gentle kiss before slowly sliding the golden ring on her finger, another sob escaping (Y/n) as she just stares at it in disbelief.

“My future Mrs. Darling,” Wally’s confirmation only made the news all the more exciting, her heart jumping in joy at the thought. “I like that a lot.”

“Me too,” Her voice almost cracked as she spoke, a hand coming up to wipe at her cheeks. Wally reached up to hold her head in between his hands, and she leaned into his touch as he smiled.

Could life get any better?

[thefangirlfever]

DBF! Miguel O'hara x reader (part 5)

Tags: angst, fluff, slow burn, F/M, age gape (reader is 28 and Miguel is 48), taboo relationship, mention of death, grief and depression, reader is a woman of color

Disclaimer: English is not my first language. See the end for notes.

Words Count: 5130

“You look positively awful.”

You sighed while hearing the voice of your fellow colleague and friend, Sarah. It was only ten in the morning but she was still as sharp as you remembered her. Not that you would complain, there was something comforting into finding back your usual banter. On the other side of the screen, Sarah was sitting at her desk in your office, already dressed-up and ready for an other day of work at the Smith and co Publishing house. Even if you had to go back to your hometown, you couldn’t let all your projects and upcoming work like that. While Sarah kept an eye on most projects, you were still working on them, sending feedback and correcting most drafts.

“Thanks, Sarah, I like hearing positive words like this when I just woke up.”

To be fair, waking up would imply that you had slept at some point, which was not your case. It has been an other sleepless night filled with feverish nightmares, existential dread and the crushing weight of anxiety sitting on top of your stomach.

She was not wrong, you looked awful this morning. The dark circles under your eyes were now more pronounced after almost two weeks at your father’s place. You were still wearing your robe and your skin looked tarnish. Some fresh air wouldn’t hurt you, but you had your reason for keeping yourself at home. First of all, you were sure you got sick that day spent gardening. Second of all, you had no intention on running into some people or old acquaintances; especially one man in particular…

“I’m serious, Y/N. You look terrible. Why didn’t you ask for a sickness leave? You know, Megan would have given it to you.”

You mumbled something under your breath.

“I don’t like giving up all my work.”

The woman on the other side of the screen rolled her eyes:

“You’re not giving up your work. You’re just taking a break…”

This was your time rolling your eyes. It was not the first time the two of you had this conversation. What was taking a break if not an other excuse for you to bask in those long and endless hours of uncertainty? The longer you stayed without doing anything, the more you were convinced you wouldn’t be able to do anything else again. You needed to move, to act upon something, or else you would slowly decay yourself away. Been there, done that. The last thing you wanted was to do it again. You still remembered the shame, the self-loathe that came with the inactivity, after all these hours spend in bed doing nothing, not even crying.

Hopefully, Sarah didn’t seem to want to push further. Instead she crossed her arms over her desk and looked at you with the gaze she usually reserved for when you were alone, out of the office and drinking at a bar in town.

“So...your father, how is he doing?”

You happily welcomed the change of subject from your poor life habits to your father’s health. At least there was some progress on this side.

“He is doing better. I think his cast will be removed mid-December.”

“Oh, that’s good.” You couldn’t help but feel grateful for her tone. Even if she had never met your father, she always asked about him and she genuinely looked concerned and sounded relieved for him. “This means the two of you will spend the Holidays together?”, she asked with the same enthusiasm.

You nodded without saying a word. She didn’t need to know that you weren’t planning on staying for the holidays. The last thing you wanted was to get trapped in this house with your father alone while the ghost of your mother would haunt the two of you. The mere fact of imagining the table for the dinner with only two plates and not her gave you nausea.

You kept talking about your father’s condition and when you mentioned getting help from one of his friends, you instantly regretted this. The memory of Miguel’s face only increased your nauseous feeling.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

How could you have said this to him when he had helped your family so much? You must have sounded like such an ungrateful jerk… but for some reason, you couldn’t stand the idea of him talking about your mother. Not that he would say anything wrong or hurtful, but if there was one moment when you wanted to not feel like this grieving daughter everyone knew, it was when you were with him…

Sarah cocked one of her eyebrows in a curious way: “A friend of your father? That’s nice of him to help you.”

Again, guilt hit you in the guts and you tried your best to keep a still demeanor. “Yeah...he is very nice… Maybe a little too much.”

“What do you mean?”

“I feel like asking too much from him…”

Sarah’s eyes opened a little wider in surprise and she looked at you as if you were crazy.

“I’m sure if it was too much for him, he wouldn’t help you this much. You know, there’s nothing wrong in asking for some help.”

It was the exact same words Miguel had said to you and just like when he was the one saying them, you couldn’t help but silently disagree. It has never been in your nature to ask for help, not ask, beg. You’d rather find a solution alone; no need to worry anyone.

“Yeah, I’ll think about that.”, you replied before coughing loudly. Your friend’s brows furrowed and she sighed.

“You’re not sick by any chance? That would explain why you look...like this.” Her words sounded a little more gentle this time as if she was trying her best to not offend you. You’d rather have her being honest with you. The truth was that you were a mess ever since you had woken up. You were feeling dizzy, hot and cold at the same time and your throat was itching. But there was no use to alarm anyone, right?

“It’s nothing, don’t worry. I think I just caught a small cold while staying in the garden for too long…”

“You should go see a doctor.”

“Mhh...I’ll think about that.” You did know a doctor but you weren’t sure you wanted to ask for his help, again. Your friend rolled her eyes again but she chose to not say anything more about this except for: “If you need anything, please, call me.”

“Thanks…”, you replied after a few seconds.

There was no way you would ask anyone for help. How bad could it be?

You spend the rest of the day in a haze. Sarah had sent you a manuscript to correct. Usually this was a task you would easily complete and you were not slow when it came to work. But today, reading even a single sentence made your head pound loudly. You couldn’t read a single sentence in its entirety and you found yourself reading three times the same words over and over again.

The itching sensation in the back of your throat felt like a claw was scratching against your skin and you were practically sure you had a fever; not that you wanted to check.

“I don’t want to sound rude, but you look awful…”, your father quietly said while the two of you had dinner.

“It’s nothing, I just caught a cold.” The last thing you wanted was to worry him. He didn’t need to know that you were feeling nauseous. He didn’t need to know that under that robe, your clothes clung to your damp-sweat skin or that you spend hours tossing in your bed that night looking for sleep.

You tried to conjure a dream, a fantasy, anything to escape from the state you were in. Lying down your bed while looking at the ceiling, you were feeling the exact same way than when you were a teenager. You remember those long nights filled with this feeling you couldn’t identify; anxiety. People were anxious all the time. But you always knew what you were feeling was different. It was like a heavy cloak was resting on your shoulders and you couldn’t get rid of him. Best you could do was pretend. But there would be a day when it wouldn’t be enough. All you needed was something unexpected and too big for you to comprehend to happen and you knew the dikes would break. And it happened…

***

You’re lying on your bed, buried under the blankets while looking at your phone screen. 30 unread messages. Half from your father. You’ll respond to that later. It’s not like anything matters anymore right now. People can wait. You put your phone back on the nightstand and close your eyes. You know you won’t be able to fall asleep. Not without her.

There was a time when your mother would come and hug you, rock you to bed so you could easily fall asleep. What was the name of the song she would sing?

The door of the room opened slowly. The new incomer was greeted with the vision of your silhouette under the sheets, the mess on the floor and the curtains closed. There’s a smell in the room like dust, closeness...not that you don’t mind; you’ve grown used to it by now. But not him.

“You’re going to sleep all day again?”

The only response he gets is the sound of the sheets ruffling around your body. An awkward silence then settled between the two of you. You know he is still there, looking at you from the door with this gaze you don’t want to face again. Finally he sighs and closes the door, leaving you alone with the ghosts from your past.

***

Your body is all sore when you wake up the next day and you stifle a whimper when you tilt your neck to the side. Your throat feels dry and you struggle breathing with your stuffy nose. Even your eyelids feel heavier than usual. How could this day be worse?

You have your answer the moment you step into the kitchen and find Miguel leaning against the counter with a cup of fresh coffee in his hand, reminding you of the last morning you two shared. His eyes land on you the moment you enter the room, studying you from head to toe while he tries his best to stay calm and collected. He doesn’t know why but there’s something in your disheveled appearance that makes his insides tighten and his mouth go dry. Your cheeks are flushed and red and there’s a heat around your body that draws him in. He has to stay still, not let his emotions show on his face but you’re not making it easy. But his eyes also notice the dark circles under your eyes, your puffy, red eyes and the way you look lost, almost haggard… Again, something strong and that he had buried deep inside of him surged to the surface. It’s an instinct that he thought had disappeared long ago.

“Hi…”

“Hey…”, you reply in a small voice while making your way in his direction.

He doesn’t give you the time to reach the coffee machine that he had already turned it on and put your favorite mug underneath. Just when you thought he would resent you for what you said the last day, it seemed like he had forgotten or at least isn’t angry. The two of you watched the cup filling up with coffee in a peaceful silence. Now that you are closer, you can feel the weight of his gaze on you and smell his perfume, which reminds you of the scarf he gave you the last time.

“Hum...I still got your scarf by the way. Maybe you want it back?”

He looks back at you with his usual soft gaze. He doesn’t look angry when you remind him of that day.

“You can keep it if you want.” The two of you almost whisper as if you were afraid of something, something hiding near you. You simply smile back. There’s no way you will keep it, even if that thought doesn’t sound so bad. But maybe you could indulge a bit for now and still keep this small piece of fabric.

A rough cough shakes your body and his gaze narrows.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes, I think I just caught a small cold…”, you reply while shrugging your shoulders. But he doesn’t seem satisfied with your answer as his fingers reach for yours, making you slowly turn in his direction.

“May I?”

Your body doesn’t move, you don’t try to look away as he slowly puts his hand over your forehead. Your skin feels scorching hot and from closer he can see a thin sheen of sweat covering your body. You have to fight to keep your eyes open. His large palm covers your forehead easily and it feels...nice. His skin is warm from the coffee he had drunk but his fingertips are still cool from the outside, which soothes you a bit.

His eyes watch over your face like any medical professional would do. He notices every sign that you are dealing with a fever, that you’re sick. This is more than a cold, maybe a flu. He can’t help but notice how exhausted you look. Your lips are dry, your cheeks flushed red and a few strands of your hair stick to your dampened skin. Slowly his gaze is not as professional as it should be, not when he spends so many time admiring the slope of your slender neck or the way your dark eyes look like endless wells, deeper and darker than the night.

All he needed was a short touch like this to feel like he was the one under a fever.

The thought of letting his fingers run along your face and then wandering over your body sounds very tempting...but also very dangerous.

Miguel finally removes his hand from your forehead and the slight quivering of your body doesn’t escape to him.

“You have a fever…”, he finally says, trying his best to control the beating of his heart at the same time. “Did you notice any other symptoms?” He tries to sound as professional as he usually does at the clinic he works at, but his voice sounds deeper, a bit more hoarse when he talks to you.

“I feel...itchy there.”, you say pointing at your throat.

“There?”, he asks after a moment of silence while his fingertips reach for you throat. The rough pads of his thumbs draw small circles over your skin and press while he holds the sides of your nape. Your skin feels so hot, he can’t deny how concerned he is. But an other sensation takes over his body as his eyes drift up toward your parted lips. And he immediately hates himself for the image this creates inside his brain…

He finally clears his throat and declares in a solemn voice: “I’ve had a few cases of flu recently and I think you’re not immune to this. You need to rest.”

His fingers finally let go of you and he puts some distance between you. You slowly nod but the small pout of your lips as he tells you to rest doesn’t go unnoticed on his sides. He can’t help thinking that he shouldn’t look this much at your lips, but it seems he can’t help it. He passes a hand through his hair, as if he was tired, and that’s when you notice that despite his put-together look, he seems tired, as tired as you.

“Maybe you could use some rest too…” You could say that but you don’t. It would sound too petty. Instead you grab your cup of coffee and ask: “You’ve been working late?”

The corner of his lips tug upside and he scoffs: “I don’t think I’m the one you should worry about. You already have enough on your plate.”

“I’m fine. It’s just a cold, right? It’ll get away in a few days, like it always does.” You nonchalantly shrug, earning a circumspect look from Miguel. He finally shakes his head.

“If you say so. But please, take some medicine and at least try to rest.”

You stay silent but he can easily read what you’re thinking. He hadn’t known you for long but he feels like you’re not that hard to read into after a few discussions. You’re stubborn and you’re one of these people who can’t sit down for their life and take a break. He used to be like that too, kinda is to this day. And quite ironically, he cares more about your well-being that he would about his. That’s why he knows he shouldn’t push too far with this, so he simply adds:

“At least try, okay? I’ll bring you some antibiotics later.”

“That’s too nice of you.”, you stutter between coughs and he feels like his chest hurts the way yours does when you cough. A simple smile of his settles the conversation.

He didn’t lie when he said he would come back. Miguel did bring you the antibiotics this evening and he even proposed to stay and cook some diner for you and your father. He even cared to make some chicken broth for you, a sweet attention that makes you feel worse. He looks pretty tired and yet, he puts so much energy into this… When he asks you if you need any help to eat, you quickly dismiss him. You’re sick, not impotent.

No one likes being sick, of course but in your case it’s close to a phobia. The taste of the bitter pills, the scent of a doctor’s cabinet, the apathetic way you lie down the couch… You hate all of this and it brings back some memories you didn’t want to face.

***

Her skin that used to be the same shade as yours, a rich and shiny complexion, is now bland, almost too thin like paper… Her luscious hair has disappeared and even if she tries to hide her skin under a scarf, she can’t fool anyone. Not you especially. You know the way her curls travel down the length of her back, rich and bouncy, with this sweet scent; that conditioner that she pretends to ignore the fact you stole some of it.

The woman in front of you is not your mother. It’s someone else, her shadow maybe. But this is not your mother. This is not the woman who could spend hours in the garden working, cutting or simply reading a book, lying on the grass while you would put daisies in her hair. This is not the woman who used to comfort you when you had a nightmare; now that she looks like one. And this is not the elegant and beautiful woman who would always stands out while she was waiting for you in front your school.

You’re old enough to understand what is happening. More than old enough. You’re an adult, you should act like one. It’s what the doctors are saying, what your father’s look says… Ironically the only one who seems to show some empathy to you is your mother. She keeps hugging you, telling you everything is gonna be alright…

But now even this is impossible. Her arms are too thin, like chopsticks and they don’t give off that comforting aura they used to have.

And this is happening in one of those ugly white rooms with the scent of detergent, of cleanliness and that scent is the one of loss to you.

***

You emerge from an other one of these foggy nights. It’s quite hard remembering in detail your dreams, even more with your fever, but you still remember the cold and sanitized look of the room when you wake up this morning.

The scent of fried eggs flow toward your nostrils as you try to prop yourself on your elbow. You’ve been sleeping on the couch, it’s easier to go to the bathroom, and this morning someone is cooking breakfast. It’s not hard to guess who it is…

Miguel must have heard your body shifting under the blankets because he leaves the kitchen with a tray of food, and the dread medications, to make his way to you. He puts down the tray down the coffee table and kneels in front of you, a concerned look on his face. You wonder if you had talked in your dreams. Would it even make sense given your current state?

“How do you feel this morning?”, he asks and you can’t help but reply with a small smile:

“Wonderful.” This doesn’t sound very convincing and his pout makes you chuckle.

Oh, the self-control this moment asks for him. There’s this small curl that hangs on your forehead and that he wants to brush away; those dimples that got him weak in the knees...And yet, he simply shakes his head again before handing you the glass of water and your pills. Your expression shifts to one of disgust, your nose wrinkling slightly.

“You have to take this.”, he says in a slightly amused smile. You reluctantly grab the pill and swallows it. The bitter taste makes you wince and he can’t help but chuckle as he brings the glass to your lips.

His hand instinctively holds the back of your head, propping you up slightly from your pillows. He watches your throat bobbing up and down as you drink, visibly thirsty after that night. Water wets your lips and he finds himself looking at them again. It’s his throat that feels dry now.

“Perfect.”, he whispers in a voice that is a bit raspier than usually before taking the glass away. His fingers still apply a gentle pressure on the back of your head. It’s a comforting sensation, just the way your mother would do when you were sick.

“Do you still take the medications I brought you?”, he asks and you slowly nod. Even if those things are disgusting, you still manage to take them. A small smile flashes upon his lips and he finally helps you lying back the couch.

“What about you?”

“What do you mean?”, he replies with his eyebrows raised.

“How do you feel this morning?”, it’s too early for him to be there. And yet, here he is, already dressed up and ready to help like some guardian angel. He only replies with a small smile:

“I’m feeling better.”

Days go by slowly since you are stuck in bed (or rather the couch), doing nothing but sleeping. It’s not that you didn’t try working, but your eyes simply close after a few sentences as you are dragged into sleep. The only thing that rhythms your days are Miguel’s visits. He is always there in the morning, making breakfast and making sure you take your pills. And in the evening, he comes back home after his day to help you making dinner, also checking on your father.

Home. You have the feeling that he treats your place like his second home, and for some reason it doesn’t bother you. There’s something comforting into knowing that you will always end up seeing him at the end of the day. You’ve stopped living with someone since your last break up and you always thought it wasn’t for you, sharing a domestic space, relying on someone else to do the chores… But Miguel is quite convincing in the role of a caretaker. No wonder the town is grateful for him to be their local doctor.

You finally assumed that he must be living alone since he spends so much time with you and your father. There’s no way someone is waiting for him at home when he is always outside. And you don’t know how you should feel about this.

But one morning, Miguel isn’t here. This fact makes you feel like someone has dropped a heavy rock down your stomach. The house feels...empty. After contemplating the silence for multiple minutes, you finally wake up. Your legs are a bit wobbly but you can tell the medications he has been providing you have an effect on your health. If only they could have on on your sleep schedule…

It’s almost noon when Miguel finally arrives and to your surprise, he looks like he has been in a rush all morning. For the first time since you know him, he looks less like the proper perfect son-in-law look he is always opting for, and more like what he is. An overworked man. He is not wearing one of his usual suits but a simple black outfit, with sweatpants and an oversize flannel. He has traded his lenses for thick frame glasses and he barely had the time to shave, leaving his face covered in a scruff.

He huffs the moment he sees you’re awake and up. But he doesn’t comment; you’re stubborn for sure. Instead he simply slops down the nearest chair, in silence. He just nods to thank you when you put a cup of coffee in front of him. You resume what you were doing, -ie cooking a decent meal, trying to ignore his gaze on you.

“It smells nice.”, he finally says while you stir something in the pan. Your movements are slow since you still seem tired but he can’t tear his gaze away.

“Oh it’s nothing. Just a quick dish I used to make when I was in college.”

He doesn’t reply immediately. College… It’s been so long since he thought about his own years in college. Like it all belongs in an other life. Sometimes he can’t help but thin that there was a before and an after in his life.

“Can I help you?”, he finally asks and just like he expected, you shake your head.

“You should rest a bit. Seems like you had a rough night…”

“I had a night shift at the clinic.” You can’t believe he still works this late at night at his age. No wonder he looks so tired. Miguel passes a hand over his face in a tired gesture before sighing:

“We had an emergency this morning, around 4, that’s why I couldn’t come earlier…”

“Are you trying to apologize?”, you ask with your hands on your hips. “There’s no need to, Miguel.”

The corner of his lips tug into a small grin and he leans back into his chair, as if the weight of something heavy had rested too long on his shoulders: “I promised you I’d be here every morning…”

“Miguel…”, you start with a quiet voice, “I know what it’s like, having a demanding job and all. In fact your job is even more demanding than mine. So, I’m not going to blame you for fulfilling your duty.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, a small grin still lingering on his lips as he listens to your small rant.

“And as I told you, I’m perfectly capable of doing all of this by my own.” You didn’t mean to sound this harsh but it seems like he doesn’t take any offense in this. However, you feel a bit awkward bringing this up again. It’s been a few days since you talked about this and you were planning to apologize for your behavior, not making things worse…

“Sounds like you got your spirit back.”, he simply says, still amused.

“I didn’t mean it to sound like that. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad to see you’re feeling better enough to put me back in my place.”

You gruff and his grin only widens. He can hear you mumble something under your breath, something like “I wasn’t trying to put you back in your place…”. And for some reason, this little banter makes him forget every agonizing minute of his night. He gets up and walks toward you, leans against the counter and watches you cooking.

“I mean it, you know. If I ever overstep your boundaries, you need to tell me. I’ve already been told I can be too...paternalistic. Trust me, I won’t take it poorly coming from you.”

The sound of the food frying in the pan is the only thing that can be heard for a few seconds as you try to make the best out of what he said. You wouldn’t call him paternalistic. In fact, he makes you think more of a mother figure than a father. A very protective mother. You finally sigh:

“I just don’t want to take advantage of your kindness.”

This was unexpected for him and he replies in a soft voice:

“You’re not taking advantage of anything.”

“You must think I’m incompetent.” This confession took him even more by surprise. And when you look away, his hand gently grabs yours, making you look back in his direction:

“That’s the last thing I’ve been thinking about you.”

He wishes he could take a picture of this moment of grace. Your dainty hand rests in his larger palm while the soft morning light makes your skin glow in a way he could only qualify of ethereal… Against his better judgment his grip on your fingers tightens and he adds in a quiet voice:

“I’ve heard a lot about you. And I can’t believe that there is a more accomplished, talented and hard-working woman out there.”

You really wanted to believe him; it sounded so tempting and nice. But a small part of you still thought he must be mistaking you for someone else. There’s no way he heard all these sweet things from your father. You have been nothing but a disappointment these last five years, struggling, stuck in what he considered a mediocre job, single and childless… You didn’t accomplish anything that would grant you this type of compliments. And yet, Miguel’s words sounded so sincere.

“You’re just flattering me at this point.”, you reply with a small smile.

“I’m not.” His voice was laced with solemnity. A lump had formed in his throat and he found it harder to say anything else. But he knew he would have loved showing you what true flattering, real praise was like…

Miguel finally let go of your hands and you caught his fingers flexing slightly, all stretched out as he brought them back to his side. The silence that followed this moment, moment that you didn’t dare to put a name on, was heavier it seems; charged with many untold words. Finally you were the one breaking the silence:

“You can set the table if you want.”

A bright smile curled up his lips as he replied: “I’m always glad to help.”

=============================================

Notes: Today's chapter is a bit slower but I can guarantee you things will move forward soon for our two protagonists...

Taglist: @safixiovi @laysmt

My Master list

<part 4 / next part >

[luxurybrownbarbie]

Any advice on how to deal with turning/being 23? I resaw that tweet about 23 being the flop era and now i’m scared because i turn 23 in a couple of days

You know when you’re baking a cake, and when you go to take a peek at it through the oven window, you see the nice golden crust and you assume it’s finished? So you decide to take it out of the oven, but as you’re pulling it out you realize the center is still raw and gooey, and it’s sloshing dangerously around in the pan? That’s 23.

You’re not finished baking babe. But it feels like it, because you’ve already got the appearance of a fully finished baked good, but once any real pressure is applied, you realize your center is woefully unprepared.

You’ll feel like none of the decisions you make are correct. (Not all of them will be). You’ll feel like clutching on to people you are steadily outgrowing. (You shouldn’t). You’ll feel like you’ve got antagonists around every corner. (You kind of do, but you have more friends than enemies).

You’re going to spend your time wondering why. “Why did I pick this job?” “Why did I pick this town?” “Why did I pick this person?” “Who let me, an infant, make all of these decisions anyway?!”

And guess what? It’s all okay. Instead of dreading and fighting against a “flop era”, which is unhelpful and woefully negative, embrace the fact that you’ve got a raw and gooey center.

Get into those fights. Start standing up for yourself and realize you’ve overcorrected. Argue with people and forgive people and recognize that the majority of them, if they’re your peers, also have a raw center too.

Make your mistakes. They won’t be catastrophic. Say yes to things. Don’t be guided by fear. Don’t get married. Don’t have a baby. Don’t drink too much. Move your body at least four times a week. Lean on the people you trust. Recognize that you can trust them, even if you feel like you’re alone in the world. Let the existential crises and looming anxieties wash over you. Don’t try to block them out, just sit with them for a while. Forgive yourself when you decide you don’t want to focus on it and instead stick your head in the sand.

Accept people as they are, because you want people to accept you as you are. Recognize when you’re being irrational. Be irrational anyway, because you don’t really have a choice in the matter.

Most of all, please breathe. Take it day by day. And if they gets too much, take it hour by hour.

This is just one year, in a long line of your years. And honestly? It’s still one of the very early ones. It will go much faster than you think. Start giving yourself grace. It’s not a flop year, babe. You’re trying. And that’s what matters.

Happy belated birthday, darling. It’s not the easiest or most fun year, but it will be a great one. 💛

[avalonlights]

in case anyone is wondering why i've been on less and posting less art, it's not because fandom has lost its grip on me (i'm lurking and enjoying the hell out of what you all post)... it's because i work in animation and the execs are all frothing at the mouth over generative ai and are trying their absolute hardest to brute force it into our workflow in increasingly stupid ways, thinking that will somehow make them more money. not only are those tools still hot garbage that would make what i do actually monumentally harder, it makes me sick to my stomach watching creatively clueless and morally bankrupt execs fall all over themselves to try and profit from tools they KNOW FULL WELL are built on stealing and laundering copyrighted work when there's simply no need to do that. it's sent me into kind of a depressive funk, especially bc i've had to sit through mandatory training on those "tools" that I absolutely refuse to use, and it's given me like... existential dread about never being able to trust an image again. i find myself anxiously over inspecting every online image for 'tells' even in completely unrelated contexts, which is just a soul-crushing knee jerk reaction i do not want to have. fun times. i'm just going to do everything i can to stay the hell away from that nonsense and hope to god there's some regulation coming that helps this mess. i hope i'll feel able to draw again soon bc it's something I love to do for FUN in this extremely stressful world and i'm so mad that this stupid, unnecessary nonsense is impacting that. anyway! sending you all a big internet hug, and i'm sure i'll be back to creating before too long here. hopefully. i miss it. :)

[ridhearts]

Sit With Me {Leona x Reader}

So. Recently I've been dealing with really, really bad short-term existential crises that always force me into a little panic so I just wrote a little thing to comfort myself :)

!! information !!

characters: leona

reader: gn

cw: existential dread, depression, death

The world was caving in.

At least, that was what it felt like.

There were no Overblots happening, there was no grand decision to make about the portal and the possibility of returning home - it was just you, your thoughts, and the primal fear that invaded. The more you tried to distract yourself, the more potent they became until a panic settled in your bones and tightened in your chest. You couldn't make any noise, but the quiet was far louder, amplifying your fear until you knew there was no drowning it out. What is going to happen to me?

One could hardly blame you for your fears. Even though you dealt with them before ever arriving in Twisted Wonderland, the total upheaval you've had to go through was enough to send anybody spiraling. You knew there were no answers to the questions plaguing you, but you were desperate for answers anyway. What value did your struggles hold? What importance did you really have? Will everyone truly slip into a void of nothingness one day and slowly be forgotten? 

Behind you, you felt something deep and comforting, warm like rolling summer thunder. Purring. 

Unlike you, Leona never worried about his existence in a way so terrifying. That's not to say he never pondered the circumstances of life - he's just always known his life was meaningless. That he was holding a position nobody cared for, that he was a name nobody would need to learn for their history tests. The concept of the end never scared him, either; He practically slept his days away anyway, and shouldn't it feel just like that? Sometimes, he even found himself idly musing that perhaps he'd close his eyes and this time, he wouldn't wake back up. More than panic, the thought made him chuckle.

But he knew that the two of you were different. Where he had given up, you were a bundle of joy, of hope. Perhaps you felt you had everything to lose. Perhaps being ripped from your home world felt like a mini death of its own. Leona had already lost everything - he was mostly convinced that he'd lose you, too. It was only a matter of time. He'd consider himself lucky if a timely death was the thing to do it.

There wasn't much in the way of comforting that Leona found himself partial to. But the first time he watched you curl inwardly as dread consumed you almost broke the rock-solid shell he kept around his heart. So he wrapped his arms tightly around you and purred, pressing your back flush against him so you could feel as much of the soothing vibrations as possible. One of his thumbs stroked your arm idly, and - tell anyone this and he'll kill you, so you can really see what there is to be afraid of - he pressed a gentle kiss to the top of your head. A reminder that he was here. That you were here. That you were too good to let a bunch of silly questions dampen that stupid little spark of yours. 

Leona liked to tell you that you were being overdramatic, that you weren't special for wondering what would happen once you died. But it worried him that something so grim followed you around, tied tightly around you and impossible to shake off. He feared that maybe, it might consume you the way it sometimes did to him, sapping him entirely of any motivation, of any hope, of any dreams. Even worse, you were the thing that made Leona consider that maybe life was worth trying for, even if he could never get everything he wanted. You were a miracle worth believing in. If the dark waters pulled you under, Leona wasn't certain he could do what you did for him and reach down to save you.

So he'd sit with you instead, and hope that if he couldn't force those thoughts away he could at least allow you to drift to sleep. When you woke up, he'd pull you out of bed and go do something. Maybe you'd just go to the cafeteria and see your friends. Maybe the two of you could make plans, and he'd drag himself out of bed and take you into town. 

As cheesy as it sounded, he desperately wanted to show you that there was light now. That if you couldn't find it in yourself, you were sure to find it somewhere around you, because that's what you did. Whatever was waiting for you at the end of the road, the only way to truly find out what it was was by living through the journey. If the universe could spare you just one kindness, one little apology after forcing you into fear of the great unknown, then he would gladly live his way through life right by your side, where you could face this thing down together.

That was enough for him. So he purred a little louder, and hoped it would be enough for you.

[love-marimo]

You'd Be So Nice To Come Home To (Toji x Reader)

ー rewriting this again because tumblr deleted the first one :(… just a self-indulgent piece to comfort myself since i'm kind of in a rut lately. don't worry there's no smut, just toji lovin' u. mentions of mental health related stuff and sex are there though. song is by helen merrill!

You had a lot on your mind: the project due by Monday, the appointment to the psychiatrist the next day, an upcoming exam week and the constant existential crisis that have decided to evolve into a seasonal thing in your life.

These days have been exhausting. You are beyond exhausted and you just want to be home.

Glancing up at the starless sky, you feel your gnawing existential dread seeping into you similar to how the moon slowly shifts into a hue of blood red.

Just a little more and you'll be home. Just a few more steps out of this empty city park and you'll be greeted by your soft bed and the warm, crimson lights that decorated the hallways of your apartment building.

And there you were, finally at the doorstep of the apartment that you call home.

You were always greeted by these crimson lamps that seemed to see and hear whatever it is running in your mind. And for once you found comfort in it, because at least you felt seen.

"You'd be so nice to come home to."

When you got to your room you immediately laid down and heaved a tired, but contented sigh. You didn't bother to change your clothes and do your routine like usual. You did want to be with someone. You want to be with him ー to feel his kisses and his touch and his warmth ー

You want to be with Toji.

But you never know if he'll come. When he does, you never know if he'll stay for a day or two or leave at the first hour of the morning. But you wait, even in your sleeping state.

You always wait for him.

2:00 AM. You felt your shoes being taken off of you along with familiar, heavy footsteps pacing around your room. You shifted in your sleep already knowing who it is, a faint smell of aloe and beer lacing together with the scent of your space.

"You'd be so nice by the fire, while the breeze on high sang a lullaby…"

Toji sits beside you in an attempt to quietly take your coat off. However, along with the midnight breeze you awaken to his face, immediately noticing an air of exhaustion around him.

"Hey doll, sorry for comin' this late at night. Just wanna check up on ya." He says, scratching the back of his head awkwardly.

"Toji…" You sat up and buried yourself in his chest ー in his embrace, to which he immediately responded with a tight hug you so missed.

Right then and there, you broke.

You cried and sobbed incoherent words until you managed to gather yourself up to face him. He sat there in silence with you, gently caressing your back and fixing your hair.

"Hey, Toji… can we not have sex tonight? I just… I'm just really exhausted right now and I'm scared. I'm scared of failure and rejection and the future and I ー" Your tears stopped you from finishing your sentence as you cried again.

After a while, Toji spoke.

"Bold of ya to assume I wanna fuck right now." He says almost too seriously.

Sniffling, you let out a chuckle and slapped him on his arm.

"Hey, that was so out of line! Please let me have my moment." You say.

"But I answered your question?"

"Yeah but the way you said it-"

"Okay, alright let's just get ya changed okay?"

Toji looks through your closet for a set of pyjamas and hands it over to you. You thank and coo at him.

"Aww, never knew you'd have this caring side to you Mr. Fushiguro."

"Ugh, will you stop calling me that?" He groans in annoyance as he sits beside you on your bed.

There was a moment of silence where you just leaned on his arm and he played with your hair, letting the hours of dawn pass you by.

"You'd be all that I could desire."

Times like this are rare. You're both the type of people who'd rather die than talk about their woes in life. You both seek diversion whenever this happens and it often leads to sex. Sex is where this relationship between both of you began so you appreciate it when he goes out of his way to initiate something with you. You're comforted at the fact that he needs you as much as you need him and god forbid sometimes, you think to yourself that's all you could ever ask for.

Toji motions you to lay on your stomach to face the window as you both watch the lunar eclipse.

"Wanna take turns in talkin' about it?" He asks, kissing you on your cheek.

You nod in reply.

"Under stars chilled by the winter, under an August November moon burning above"

"Is it a new clinic?" He asks, propping his head with one arm as he turns to face you.

"Yeah, and thank goodness she's a woman. I keep on having a hard time dealing with male psychiatrists and the interns for their impatience, though I'm sure there are great male psychiatrists out there. I feel bad for public institutions though, they always have to deal with so many people every day free of charge." You complain. "What about your sword? Is there any way to fix it?"

"Yeah. But it would take a long time. I have a shit ton of missions piled up on me right now so I have to find a way to find or create an alternative."

"Toji, I'm curious."

"Huh, about what?"

"Why don't you want to fuck?"

Toji shakes his head laughs a little too loud and you glare at him for not taking the question seriously.

"Come on, I wanna know." You persist.

"Nothin'? 'Cus I wanna talk and I'm exhausted like you are. Plus, it would be unfair for ya if I decide to do it with your state right now."

"Aww, look at him. Mr. Fushiguro is all about kinship and fairness. That's so cute-" You coo and try tickling him but Toji stops you when he hovers on top of you with a playful look in his eyes.

"Do that again, I swear and I might change my mind about not fuckin' ya."

Your jaw fell for a minute but then you both burst into laughter.

"You'd be so nice, you'd be paradise…"

Being with him feels like one of the best days of your life where you get to be a giddy teenager again. But, even if you both know that you love each other, this love is fleeting. This love isn't forever. This love won't last like how you both want it to because of the nature of his job. Loving him is like letting go of a paper plane from the top floors of an apartment in New York.

You know that he's there and he will be there, but he's a man who follows the path of the wind, and in turn, you'll never know if he will return once he leaves.

Quiet tears started falling from your eyes again and Toji is quick to pull you into his arms again.

"Hey, hey, what's wrong now?"

"Nothing… I just feel relieved right now that you're here." And at that, he hugs you tighter.

"Aww, look at my sweet sugar pie actin' all grateful and shit." He coos, returning back your teasing.

"Ugh, shut up!" You feigned annoyance and pinched his cheek.

Another moment of silence falls between you both before Toji says,

"Hey."

"Hm?"

"I love you."

"…To come home to and love."

"I know, Toji. Thank you for being here. I love you too."

You reply, pressing a chaste kiss on his lips.

ー Lolita

[fulcrumstardust]

Please tell us more about "So glad we almost made it" (& is this from the line from "everybody wants to rule the world" or just a coincidence?)

YES absolutely! I loooove this verse:

There's a room where the light won't find you Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down When they do I'll be right behind you So glad we've almost made it So sad we had to fade it

(peak angst)

anyway! I had this wip for YEARS (uh), it's all over the place scenes half finished here and there. Basically Cassian is presumed KIA until he's not. Jyn learns that he's been (allegedly) captured while undercover and sent to a mining asteroid. Nobody knows who he is there.

Now for context it's the thick of the war and politics are just ~shit~ for the Alliance, stealing content from Mr Freed where they have to buy the freedom of slaves from terrible people etc. Anyway. A rescue mission is underway, keep in mind they aren't sure Cassian is actually alive. And Jyn obviously joins in (after threatening Melshi).

The diplomatic way isn't fast enough for her so she infiltrates the prison herself, finds Cassian who's dying from septicemia and tries her hardest to get him out. spoiler alert, it does not end well.

angsty preview 🔥 (in case you need more whump, cw: injury etc)

“I'm looking for the Starbreaker's crew,” she asked around, briefly kneeling beside strangers. “Heard anything?”

Empty faces shook their heads silently as Jyn went through the groups of prisoners sitting on the dusty ground. “Starbreaker's crew? No?”

She attracted curious stares, but no one found the courage to inquire on the matter. Those people had been here for weeks, months maybe, they had no energy to spare for an obsessive woman asking questions about a lost ship.

Moving towards the back of the underground prison, Jyn caught the profile of a man that seemed painfully familiar in the oppressive darkness. “Cassian?” she called with sickening hope, only to let her hand fall back when she realized it wasn't him.

Jyn stood up and scanned the dark room, asphyxiated by her internal fears. What if he wasn't here? What then? What will she do now that she was locked up with a bunch of prisoners in this shithole of a planet? Talk about a flawed plan…

Barely keeping her brain from freezing in panic, Jyn didn't notice the person following her—until a young voice startled her from her existential dread. “You're looking for Cassian?”

Jyn flung around. “Yes,” she said, facing a dark-haired boy that couldn't be much older than twelve. “You've seen him?”

The boy nodded and Jyn forgot all of her following questions, her face suddenly burning from anxiety. Cassian's here. He’s alive.

She quickly walked into the footsteps of this stranger as he gestured for her to follow.

Behind a curved wall, laying on the ground under a dirty rag, Jyn discovered the silhouette of an unconscious man. She kneeled in a hurry, her mind trying to reconcile her memories of him with the brutal reality. For a shameful amount of seconds, she wanted to say: no, that's not him. But it was. Ish’ka… it was.

Jyn cupped his face between shaky hands, feeling the burn of a feverish skin under her touch. His eyes were rimmed by dark circles, the hollow of his cheeks eaten away by a full-grown beard. She could barely tell if he was breathing and, when she checked, found that his pulse was weak and shallow.

Cassian looked beyond miserable. He looked like a dying man.

“Cassian,” she called in vain, “can you hear me?”

“Careful,” the boy told her with a protective stance. Jyn decided to pay him some more attention for his tone alone. When she looked at him with a questioning gaze, he pointed toward Cassian’s legs. “He’s got a bad injury.”

Jyn had seen plenty of bad.

It didn't even begin to describe the horror of what she discovered under that smelling sheet. Blood drained from her face with a gush of nausea. She tried her best not to gag at the sight of the wound, fear in her guts. She could only imagine; Cassian had taken a blaster shot to the lower leg, or maybe caught the explosion of a mine—not a direct impact, a bursting of heat that caused the skin to implode.

It would have taken long enough to heal, had he been able to access medicare immediately. The non-treatment only led to an infection of the damaged tissues, coloring the surrounding skin with a contrasting dark color, and inviting more bacteria to feast on the scene. Jyn could almost smell it over the putrid odor of that place. She feared the infection had passed into his bloodstream already.

“I tried to clean it,” the boy said with a shy voice, “but here…”

Jyn tried to focus her mind on him long enough to reply. Although she knew nothing about him, he seemed genuinely distraught by Cassian’s condition, which pierced through the walls of blind terror surrounding Jyn's heart.

“I'm sure you did your best,” she said and touched his arm. “What's your name?”

“Horizon, ma'am. People call me Hoz.”

“Thank you, Hoz.”

The boy lowered his voice hesitantly, glancing around with a frown as if he was about to deliver sensitive intel. “Are you… Jyn?”

Her eyebrows draw higher with careful hesitation. She considered the surprising possibility that Cassian had made friends with the boy—which was somewhat out of character... or telling her everything she needed to know about Hoz.

“Did he tell you about me?”

The boy shrugged. “He didn't tell your name at first… only that he needed to go home. But sometimes, he calls for a Jyn, so I figured…”

She felt like someone had punched her in the guts. “How long since you last talked with him?”

“It's been… a couple of days, ma'am. Are you here to get us free? The… Alliance?”

“I’m going to get you out.” Jyn promised. She lowered her face so she could whisper to Cassian in turn: “I'm going to get you home. It's almost over. Stay with me.”

[johnwickb1tsch]

Vino Veritas

A Destination Wedding Frank x Fem!Reader Fic

Attending the wedding of your ex-fiancé gets slightly better when you meet someone having just as miserable a time as you... Warnings: Nothing too serious holy shit. Cursing. Broken engagement. Nihilism, existential bullshit, copious amounts of sarcasm. Eventual nsfw, not this chapter. Angst. Grump/sunshine trope. Loosely based on the movie but I'm not that smart. Or bitter. chapter map.

The Gate to Hell

You’re not sure what it is about airports, that somehow makes them feel like a special little extension of the circles of Hell. Or maybe purgatory, is more the like. All you do there is wait, and wait and wait, praying that soon it will be time to move on.

It probably doesn’t help that you’re absolutely fucking dreading your destination ahead.

Frankly, it will be a miracle if you survive this weekend with your sanity intact.

And then, there’s this dude behind you. You keep seeing him out of the corner of your eye. He just keeps pacing back and forth, rolling his stupid bag with him, and you just want to whirl and tell him to be still or sit the fuck down.

Instead, he comes to stand next to you.

You give him a glance. And then, you’ll admit, a double take, because he is stupidly handsome, even while frowning, staring churlishly at the flight monitor as though it had personally insulted him. And, to add insult to injury, he is tall. And well dressed in jeans and a button down and a nice sports jacket. And you inwardly sigh for some indefinable reason that has to do with longing and your acceptance that the universe does not bestow such gifts upon you for free.

“Nice dress.”

You blink, not having expected him to speak to you.

“Thanks.” It’s a 50’s style robin’s egg blue halter swing dress, your favorite color. You needed some bright color therapy, to face the hell you’re about to be stepping into.

“Is there a sock hop in San Luis Obispo I’m missing?”

You guess with your cat-eye Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses, you do look rather on brand.

From his sardonic tone you’re not sure if he’s making fun of you. “All the cool kids are going.”

You kind of deliver it like a dig, and you see the corners of his mouth twitch. “Ah. That explains everything.”

You look him over. He…really is ridiculously handsome, if you’re being honest. High cheekbones. Trimmed beard. Piercing eyes. Casually well dressed. A bit older than you, not that that’s ever stopped you.

“I hope our flight’s on time.”

You check your phone app for the airline. “Supposed to be.”

“Let me guess. You’ve got an app for that?” The way he says it, just this side of snide, like you fucking millennials—it kind of pisses you off. And maybe you’re overly sensitive to patronizing comments from older men, but with your history you have a right to be.

“Do you have a problem with me?”

He stands up a little straighter. “What?”

“Like what’s your deal? I was just standing here minding my own business, while you’re creeping around behind me—”

“I was not creeping. I was trying to see the board.” He gestures at the display screen by the gate.

You look him up and down. That’s a tall drink of water, if you’re being honest. “Because Mr. six foot six over here can’t see over my head—”

“I’m only 6’1”—”

“Okay, 6’2” in your shoes, and then you come up here, give me a backhanded compliment, and make fun of me for having the means to keep track of what’s going on with our plane?” You glare at him. “Holy shit, are you trying to neg me?”

“I don’t…even know what that means.”

“Ok, boomer.”

“I am not a boomer.”

“Whatever.”

Then he has the gall to step away—in front of you.

“Seriously?”

“What?”

“You’re going to butt ahead in line too?”

“On a flight that holds eight people?”

“Wow. Ok, be my guest.” You wave him on, and he rolls his eyes. Then you have to stand there, and look at his stupidly broad shoulders in that nice sports jacket, and his dark softy waving hair that just brushes his collar…you’re not going to look at his butt.

You’re not.

Your eyes slide down.

Fuck, but that’s a nice caboose.

The Fight Or Flight Response

As you sit in your backseat of the plane, there is one seat left beside you, and when you see who boards last you want to throw yourself down the stairs before they close the door.

“Anyone want to trade seats?” he asks, bent over practically in half, he’s so tall and the plane is so small.

Crickets.

With a resigned grumble he settles into the seat next to you, as though the world might end if he has to spend a handful of minutes in your general proximity.

Then, of course, the universe further conspires to embarrass you by sending you a defective peanuts bag, which you cannot for love or money get to tear open.

“Dear god, tear it at the notch,” grouses the rude man beside you, driven insane by you fighting with it.

“There is no notch.”

He’s there with his big hand extended, making an annoyed give it here gesture. It’s distracting, truly, how long and elegant his fingers are.

“Give it here.”

“I’m fine.”

“Give. It. Here.”

You’re so disgusted with this whole day, you hand it over. Then watch with smug delight as he can’t get it open either. Finally, he uses his teeth in his frustration, undoubtedly spitting all over it. When he tries to hand it back to you, you raise an eyebrow at him. “Really?”

With a sigh, he offers you his less molested bag.

You take it like accepting his sword on the battlefield.

You both make faces as you quickly find that the seasoning on the nuts tastes like hot trash, and you reckon it’s probably a metaphor for how the next few days are going to go.

This is going to be the weekend from hell.

“So what brings you to San Luis Obispo?” the man asks resignedly, almost like he can’t quite stop himself from talking to you. There is an exhaustion in his tone that would have pulled at your heartstrings, if you weren’t so generally pissed off.

“You don’t have to try to talk to me.”

He shrugs, throwing up those big, beautiful hands in a gesture of annoyance. You can’t help but stare at them—they really are a menace.

“Just trying to be pleasant.”

You can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes you at hearing that. He frowns over at you, and you cover your mouth, hiding your smile. You know you must look like a crazy person—but it’s just too ridiculous.

“Was it that funny?”

You sigh, and for some reason you feel better after the involuntary outburst. Okay. Maybe you can make an effort. No one is ever in a good mood at the airport, after all. “I’m actually going to Paso Robles.”

“Row-bulls.”

“It’s pronounces ro-blays.”

“Everyone says Row-bulls.” 

“Well, not the fucking Spanish who named it.”

He looks away again with that thunderhead of a frown. Why does he have to look extra handsome, when he’s pissed off?

You sigh again. “Look, I’m sorry. I swear, I’m not always such a bitch. It’s just…this fucking wedding I’m going to.”

This catches his attention; he turns to look at you like a hawk zeroing in on a mouse. “Not…Keith and Anne’s wedding?”

“How do you fucking know Keith and Anne?”

“Keith and I share a mother.”

“Holy shit, you’re Frank?”

“Who are you?”

“I was engaged to Keith, years ago.”

“Oh my god, you’re y/n.”

You can sense by the way he says it that you’re infamous in the family’s lore. It’s been a long time, but still, it fills your heart with a familiar leaden despair.

You close your eyes, and look away.

“You’re just as horrible as Keith always said,” you say to the window.

“I find you equally disagreeable, I assure you.”

waiting for death the car

“There was supposed to be a car,” Frank grouses the second you exit the airport. Patience is clearly not his strong suit.

“The flight was early.”

“But it seemed so long.”

It’s a good dig, truth be told, and the corners of your mouth twitch despite yourself. You sit down on a bench, and to your surprise he sits on the other, though on the side closest to you. “So what the hell are you doing here?” he asks. “Didn’t Keith break your heart?”

“Shattered it into bits.”

“Well?”

“I was invited.”

“And…you’re a masochist?”

“Look, I’m not…whatever Keith must have said I am. I was practically a fucking child when he started dating me. It was not…” It was perfectly legal, of course, but the imbalance of worldly experience, looking back, had not been kosher.

You feel the tide of all the pain and insecurity that man caused you raise up in your heart. Usually you’re pretty good at shoving that shit down down in the deepest dungeon you can, like a healthy person, but the wound is feeling a little fucking raw at the moment, considering.

“Keith is an asshole who only cares about himself. I am aware.”

You sigh, and the tide miraculously recedes. Goddamn. It almost feels like he’s on your side.  “Okay, yeah. There you go.”

“Why do this to yourself?”

“You know, before he broke it off, we had a fight the night before because I told him I would never get breast implants, of all fucking things, and Keith told me I would never amount to anything without him.”

“Sounds like something asinine he would say.”

“I wanted to go back to school, and he didn’t like it. He wanted a Stepford wife, and I was becoming alarmingly aware of the world outside his own making of it, the way children do when they grow up. If you’re wondering why he dumped me.”

“That tracks perfectly.”

“He invited me to be a shit and rub my nose in it, so…I’m here as a fuck you. I wanted to show him I’m doing fine.”

“Are you?”

“Yes, actually.”

“You do seem rather well adjusted.”

“Yeah, fuck you too.”

This, surprisingly, makes him smile a little.

A few moments of slightly less awkward silence pass before he asks, “So what did Keith tell you about me?”

“Oh, he told me plenty.”

“Such as?”

“What does it matter?”

“Don’t do that,” he snipes. “Don’t dangle the tidbit then refuse to deliver it.”

“Fine. He said you’re a grouch who hates everyone.”

“Oh. I was afraid he might have said something untrue.”

You glance over at his ridiculously well-sculpted profile. He glares ahead, his brows furrowed, and you strangely get the sense that maybe…he’s a little sad for it.

At fucking last, the shuttle car from the hotel arrives.

Tbc...

[klausinamarink]

One Kid Gone, Another Up and Vanished (part 14)

getting back to the grove of writing and updating this on a reg. And look at that - an update in 2024! (jesus where did time go)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 next: Part 15 | ao3

After startling himself awake for the third time in a row, Jeff groans in defeat as he kicks the blankets off him and makes his quiet way downstairs. He pauses once at the front of his parents’ bedroom door, wondering if he could sneak in under their covers like he used to do when he was little. Instead, he listens to his dad’s soft snores for a bit before continuing on.

The kitchen is quiet. Usually, the liminal solace eases him. This time however, it makes Jeff hyper aware of every sound in the house. Any tap on the window and back door spikes his heartbeat up to eleven. The darkest corners where he can’t see manifest the faintest shapes of teeth. His mind is starting to convince him that the monster is hiding right behind the kitchen island.

He quickly flicks the light switch on and the shadows retreat to their abyssal homes. Jeff does a swift lap around the island, sighing in relief when he finds nothing.

Jeff goes over to sink and fills up a glass of water. He drinks, drinks, and drinks.

After his throat feels no longer dry, Jeff places the glass down, a finger tapping on the rim. He’s too worked up to go back to bed and sleep. Thank god it’s the weekend. He can’t imagine trying to trudge his way to class and lunch while every empty seat that should have Eddie in it continues to haunt him.

“Fuck.” Jeff huffs, rubbing the side of his temple. Because right. While he had just found out alternate dimensions with man-eating monsters exist, Eddie’s still incognito.

He just wanted to find his best friend. How did Jeff’s life come to this?

Another realization strikes him. If Eddie doesn’t come back, then what will happen to the Hellfire Club? Neither Jeff or the other members are as great at DM’ing as Eddie. There’s also no chance of someone else in the high school with the same skills to bother joining. Even if they did, it wouldn’t be the same with Eddie’s love for dramatics and methods of setting the scene to further engage them. A club without their leader wouldn’t last long even with the members still onboard.

Hellfire would be gutted out of Hawkins High. Every brick made of Eddie’s blood, sweat, and tears would be smashed into dust and swept into the dumpster. It would be like Eddie had never existed at all.

Jeff buries his face into his hands, leaning over the counter. He breathes in and out as slow as possible. He is not having this breakdown at whatever-o’clock at night-

The floorboards creak behind him. Jeff spins around, his hand about to throw the glass at the noise. He manages to stop himself at the last second when he sees it’s just his grandmother.

“Jeffery?” She squints at him, her accent more clear with her apparent sleepiness. “Why, why are you up? You should na koimásai, óchi?”

Jeff chuckles, wiping his eyes in case a few tears welled up. He walks over to her, gently holding her arms. “Kala, Gigi. I was just thirsty.”

His grandma studies his face briefly before she tutted, “Trouble sleeping. Óchi kala.” She waves him off as she starts heading over to the cabinets, the kettle already set to boil. “Tea would make you better.”

Jeff’s not sure if his grandma’s famous dandelion-honey tea will be enough to erase the shadowy monsters and existential dread from his mind. But hey, what not?

—

El wakes up to the sun. It’s nice and warm on her face. She sits up from the ground, keeping her head up to have the sun still shining on her. But a cold breeze hits her and the nice warmth is gone. She shivers, sinking her head further into her jacket.

The pretty blonde hair gets into her nose and mouth. She spits it out but now it sticks to her cheek.

El stands up and walks over to the large water, close to where she had slept. She looks down and sees the same Pretty Girl. Except that her eyes are puffy-red and her face is dirty.

El takes off the hair and Pretty Girl does the same. Now she looks just like Eleven. A monster. Papa’s failure.

El’s face twists, remembering how scared she was the night before when Mike and Lucas started yelling at each other before Mike hurt him. While they had all ran into Mike’s house after she Felt Will and Eddie, she had ran away from them.

She doesn’t want to hurt them anymore. Staying with them will bring Papa to them. Or turn Mike into someone like that boy Troy.

She still has the walkie radio in her hands. She hasn’t turned it on in case Mike starts calling her. But she hasn’t checked in with Will and Eddie either yet. She’s scared of hearing the monster again.

Something dark and hazy flashes in her mind. For a moment, she’s at the Room and someone - not Papa - leers down at her. Eleven, what have you done?

Somehow, it terrifies El to her entire body that she screams. The water parts away in a rush as if it’s scared of her too.

—

The first thing Nancy does after waking up is flicking her eyes to the bedside lamp. She expects it to turn on and off by itself like some sort of morning alarm. But nothing happens. Nancy shuffles over and twists the tiny knob to the side, but still nothing. Seems that the power is still out.

Nancy looks down at Jonathan. He’s still sleeping where he lies on the floor next to the bed, a thick duvet over him with his jacket as a pillow.

After the combination of the Poltergeist-esque communication with his brother (the reality of that situation is now hitting her wow) and the hectic post-blackout assistance (which involved many candles and hurried transport of food in the fridge), Jonathan had been drained enough that he had just dropped to the floor like a stone. Her mom had only allowed him to sleep in Nancy’s room because he literally couldn’t budge. 

Nancy watches him for a moment while his shoulders rises gently up and down. It gives her deja vu, bringing her back to that morning in Steve’s bedroom. 

Oh god, Steve. Nancy didn’t mean to say any of that to him. It was just supposed to be a way to convince him to leave so Steve wouldn’t see Jonathan and get the wrong idea. But she got too stressed by his questions that her emotions got the best of her. 

Now, after seeing Steve’s crestfallen expression, Nancy will know better than to hurt him again. 

She rolls over to her back and stares up at the ceiling. Her mind buzzes with the renewal of every emotion from the past twelve hours. Fear. Curiosity. Irritation. Regret. All of them fill up the new hole in her chest.

But none of it is enough to drown her worries for Barb.

Tears sting her eyes again. Nancy quickly rubs them away, not wanting to dissolve into a sobbing mess again. It hurts when she demands herself not to think about Barb for a minute. She needs to distract herself. Preferably something safe. Like, like-

Checking on Mike.

Nancy slips out of bed, tiptoeing past Jonathan and into the sunrise-lit hallway. Mike’s door is closed but she hears a faint rustling sound on the other side. When Nancy lightly knocks, it stops.

“Mike?” She calls, quiet enough to not wake up Holly or her parents.  

She hears her brother groaning. Nancy rolls her eyes and lets herself in, expecting Mike to yell at her as usual. Instead, she’s taken aback by his silence as he stuffs his backpack with something that looks like an extra set of clothes.

“Mike?” When he doesn’t look up at her, Nancy steps closer. Mike’s hunched over and the corner of his eyes look red. Either from last night’s craziness or his emotional outburst. Maybe both. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Totally not because I can’t find Will.” Mike snaps with a swift zip of his backpack. His tone sounds too tired for a twelve year old. And something his answer confuses Nancy. Can’t find Will?

She thinks about to last night when the flashing lights in her room expanded to the rest of the house. Nancy had been terrified and too focused on Jonathan holding her that she’d barely missed Mike’s frantic calls. At first, she thought he was calling for their parents, but then she had heard him shout out Will’s name. After all the lights blew out, Nancy had nearly forgotten it.

Now that she thinks about it, she wonders if Mike had also found a way to talk to Will too. That might explain the behaviour of him and his friends from the past few days.

“Hey, if there’s any-” But just as Nancy sits on the bed next to him, Mike hops off. That’s when she notices that he’s already changed out of his pyjamas. 

“Wait a second. Mike, where are you going?” 

Her brother stops at the door’s threshold. He turns around and says seriously, “I’ve become the fugitive of the state. Tell Mom I love her.” 

“Wh- Mike!” Nancy jumps up to her feet but Mike’s already dashing down to the stairs. Frankly, she’s too taken aback about the sudden scene of normalcy to chase after him. 

She groans in exasperation as she returns back to her bedroom. This time, Jonathan is awake, rubbing his eyes and asking, “Whatz th’ time?”

“Morning, that’s what we know.” Nancy drops back on her bed. Her hand coincidentally lands on her notebook, left alone on the corner. She picks it up and flips back to the pages where she had transcribed Jonathan’s conversation with Will and Munson.

J: Munson? How are you here? EM: TAKEN TOO. DEMOGORGON. SCARY MOTHERFUCKER.

(At that, Nancy couldn’t help but laugh. That’s one way to describe the monster she and Jeff had fled from.)

J: Okay, did the demogorgon took you too, Will? WB: YES. J: When? WB: BIKING BACK HOME EM: IT HIT MY VAN

“What should we do now?”

Nancy glances up. Jonathan’s still sitting, picking at the skin around his thumb, not looking at her. “I mean, we know Will’s somewhere that’s not really here and Eddie Munson’s with him. But something happened-” he gestures to the nonfunctional lights, “-and now we can’t talk to them and find out.”

Nancy bites her lip. She doesn’t like this either, but it would be laughable to go to the police. Because what would they really do, even if they somehow believe the story? Shoot the monster and bring those two boys back? Yeah, very unlikely.

Thumbing through the pages with last night’s conversation, Nancy tears them out of the notebook. She hands them over to Jonathan, who finally looks up and slowly takes them. “Your mom is probably the only person who knows what’s going on. Give those to her. She’ll believe us.”

“And then what?” Jonathan mutters, staring down at the pages. “Knowing my brother’s alive is not enough.” He pauses, “Does Munson’s parents know about him?”

Nancy blanks. She doesn’t know Eddie Munson that much, save for his habit of walking on lunch tables and shouting at the popular students. Nancy used to find it funny, but eventually it turned into background noise.

Shaking her head, she asks, “Don’t you know Munson better?”

Jonathan sighs, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. “Just because we’re both freaks at school doesn’t mean I’m friends with him. I know nothing about Munson other than he lives in Forest Hills trailer park. I don’t think he even has parents.”

He pauses, turning his gaze back at Nancy, “Wait, what about the demo-monster? We know nothing about it.”

“We do.” Nancy gets up, walking over to her bookshelf. “I’ve only seen the monster for a minute, but even if it’s not from our world, it’s still an animal. A predator. If we can at least guess its strengths and weaknesses,” she pulls out her animal encyclopedia. She hasn’t touched it since eighth grade, but it should still do, “then we hunt it and kill it.”

Jonathan stares at her. “How?”

“We can get hunting equipment. That should work.”

“But will that guarantee getting Will and Munson out?”

Nancy doesn’t know how to answer that.

—

Jim wakes with a startled gasp and a hand clamping over his neck. The side of it still pangs with the needle suddenly stabbing through the skin. Catching his breath, he takes in his new surroundings. He’s back in his trailer, now sitting upright on the couch as the morning beams through the curtains. Which means that, in between now and his baffling discovery at the Hawkins Laboratory, Jim had somehow made it home and blacked out.

Motherfuckers.

Jim rushes out of the couch and starts tearing through every inch of his place. Cuts through the pillows. Breaks more plates than necessary in the cabinets. Digs through the trash. Ruffles his bedsheets. The whole shebang.

It’s while he starts unscrewing the bulbs of his lamps that a knocking bangs on the front door. Jim freezes for a second, a sheet of sweat and fear dousing him. His gun is lost somewhere in the mess. If that’s the Lab folks again with that Brenner man again-

“Chief! You coming out?”

Jim shakes out a relieved sigh. It’s Cahallan.

He eyes at the lamp, wondering if he could still check it. He decides to leave it for now. Let the Lab listen to him like they want.

Jim finds his gun and checks through the peephole. Then he pokes his head out, glaring at Cahallan.

“Whoa, Chief,” Cahallan starts but Jim cuts him off with a (hopefully) very relaxed, “What’s up?”

As Cahallan stares at him, Jim notices two other men behind him. He relaxes when he recognizes Powell - who’s looking down like the dead leaves around his shoes are the Niagara Falls - and Conrad Smith, another officer at the station.

Cahallan snaps out of his stupor, shaking his head. “Remember Barbara Holland? A couple of those rangers went out and got a eyewitness who said she hitchhiked with a trucker somewhere west. Guess she did ran away after all.”

Jim nods, but his mind is already split between completing his search of the house and the goddamn state getting their hands all over Hawkins.

“There’s something else too, Chief.”

Jim barely resists an impatient sigh, “What?”

The men look at each nervously before Cahallan takes a breath and quickly says, “Will Byers’ grave was desecrated last night.”

Jim almost falls over at that, but he catches himself at the last second. He doesn’t hide his shock and disbelief though. “I’m sorry, what?!”

“We got the call just around ten last night.” Smith takes the reins to explain, “The grave was dug down to his coffin and the robbers broke it open.”

Oh sweet Jesus.

How Jim hasn’t collapsed to the ground yet, he chalks it up to his sheer force of will and the way his hand still grips on the edge of his door. He sucks in a deep breath, “Please tell me the kid’s body isn’t violated.”

Cahallan winces again, “Yeah, uh, we don’t exactly know.” At Jim’s bewildered glare, he quickly backtracks, “When we came over, the graveyard was swarmed by the state guys! They told us this was their ‘point of interest’, whatever the hell that means other than we should stay out of their business.”

A cold sweat drips down Jim’s neck. This definitely sounds like a government coverup in the making. Not to mention that if Joyce catches a wind of what’s going on… Jim’s not sure if he should pray for the state rangers from their inevitable fates.

Then another cold thought strikes him. What if the Lab already bugged her house? And Wayne Munson’s?

“Okay.” Jim feigns casual interest and clicks his tongue. “Well, if the case is going to be resolved by the state, then so be it. Now scram.”

Before he shuts the door, he hears Powell calling out to him. He glares out again, “What?”

Powell shuffles from foot to foot before finally piping up, “Am I still fired after the Munson kid is found?”

Jim slams the door.

He stays long enough to hear their mutterings and crunching footsteps as they walk away. Then he stomps back over to the lamp, digging his hand inside the cover. Something plastic touches his fingers. Jim immediately curls around it and pulls it out, barely catching a small snap as he does.

He examines the device closely. It’s a small black object that looks like some Lego pieces glued together with a couple exposed wires on the side. Jim doesn’t think twice about opening the window and throwing the thing out as far as he could without pulling a muscle.

—

It’s the crick in his neck that wakes up Wayne first. He slowly sits up from his uncomfortable position and rubs a hard thumb on the knot. As he does, Wayne presses a palm over his eyes, taking in the room with bleary eyes.

The living room’s the same as last time. The lights Joyce had reattached to the wall were sprawled across the table to the wall above the couch. Part of the old bedsheet, the alphabet hastily painted in black, had somehow fallen on his lap. Joyce herself is also sleeping, now lying on the couch instead of her stiff seating position from the last time Wayne had checked.

It’s surprising that either of them had slept after their grave discovery (no pun intended), especially after a frantic but thorough washing of their dirt-covered hands and disposal of the shovels.

He reaches over, nudging Joyce by her arm. It takes a couple tries but she jolts awake.

“Oh god…” She yawns with a crack of her jaw. Then she peers over at Wayne. “Had they said anything yet?”

Wayne shakes his head, picking up a string and letting it go so it clacks against the cloth. “I’ve actually fell asleep too, so I might’ve missed it.”

Joyce stretches her arms over her head as she sits up. She clears her throat and calls out, “Good morning, Will! Morning to you, Eddie.”

Wayne watches every lightbulb but none of them flickers. Joyce gives out a huff of frustration before she glances back at Wayne. “Coffee?”

“Best way to start the morning.” Wayne smiles. Joyces returns it, though smaller and strained. But just as she stands up, there’s a sudden knock at the door.

They freeze. Wayne whirls his head back to Joyce. Her face is pale with fear. When she catches his eye, she mouths questioningly, “Police?”

Wayne really hopes it’s not.

We got out of the grave fast. We ran back to my truck fast and quiet. I drove us out without a hurry just several minutes later so the ‘keeper won’t question it.

..Actually, looking back at it, Wayne might’ve been an idiot.

The knocking comes again. Persistent, louder.

Wayne stands up slowly. Joyce grabs onto his arm. “What do I do?” She whispers. He can already see her hand twitching towards a nearby hammer.

“Answer it.” Wayne continues when Joyce gives him a baffled look, “Whoever it is, they probably won’t leave until you open the door. Might be the police. Might be Lonnie or somebody else.” His hands goes on her shoulders, squeezing them assuringly. “But the second they start bringing harm on you, I’ll break their teeth.”

Joyce nods, sucking in shaky breaths. She pats his hands, letting Wayne to drop them as she strides over to the knocking door. Joyce pauses to shoot another look at him. Wayne nods back. Go ahead.

She jerks her chin up with a defiant glare. Joyce calls out as she opens the door. “Alright, I’m here! No need t-”

Chief Hopper immediately steps inside, silencing her with a finger to his lips and a notepad aimed at her.

Wayne blinks. Well, he fears the police would come, but not in this kind of manner he’s seen before. “Chief?”

Hopper turns to him, holding his shushing gesture while shaking his notepad at Wayne. They’re written in black pen, large letters saying DON’T SAY ANYTHING!

“Hop-?” Joyce starts to speak, but Hopper shushes her again.

Wayne and Joyce soon stand at each other’s sides, watching in complete bewilderment and dismay as Hopper methodically turns the house inside out. After what feels like hours later, Hopper finishes his bizarre inspection as he nods at them.

“You’re good, Joyce.” Hopper sighs, dropping to the couch.

“Hopper, what the hell?!” Joyce throws her arms up, stomping over to him. “You come in here, tell me and Wayne to stay quiet, and you tear the rooms apart? At this point, I might as well move out!”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Hopper rubs his eyes wearily, “I just needed to make sure they didn’t bug you.”

At Joyce’s sound of confusion, Wayne steps in and asks, “‘They’?”

If he’s puzzled by Wayne’s presence, Hopper doesn’t show it. Instead, he answers simply, “The lab.”

“You’re losing us, Hop,” Joyce crosses her arms, “What lab?”

Hopper tells them. For the second time, Wayne thinks that he’s just hearing a ghost story. Only this time involving a reckless breaking and entry of the Hawkins Lab and discovering something in their lower floors that sounds more like a newfound gate to hell.

“It was glowing red?” Joyce interrupts. The horrified disbelief on her face probably matches with Wayne’s.

Hopper nods, “Yeah, from the inside.”

“Like my wall.” Joyce murmurs. Catching Wayne’s confused glance, she explains, “That night when I spoke to Will and he told me Eddie’s name? Something came out of my wall in the room and, well, I couldn’t see it probably but it glowed red and scared me out of my house.”

“Eddie’s name?” Now it’s Hopper looking confused.

Wayne blows out a soft breath, “We- well, Joyce here had spoken to her son. Turns out wherever he is, Eddie’s with him too.”

While Hopper processes that info, Joyce frowns at him, “Do you think that, because of whatever the Lab has in their basement, it’s why Will and Eddie are not here?”

“Not to mention the state taking over Eddie’s case.” Wayne remarks pointedly.

Hopper runs a hand down his face, muttering curses under his breath. “Yep.” He makes a short but bitter laugh, “Actually, I figured that they had to be covering for something when I tried to get to the morgue, but too many rangers were posted there.”

“Because Will’s body is fake.” Joyce says.

“Exact-” Hopper starts to nod before shooting his head towards Joyce. A sharp pang of panic shoots through Wayne as he whirls at her. Joyce immediately clamps a hand over her mouth but the damage is already done.

The silence loads into the living room like bullets in a gun chamber.

“Joyce.” Hopper says slowly with a careful tone. His hands are carefully outstretched and open. “Joyce, what did you just say?”

Joyce looks at Wayne with barely-hidden panic and apologies in her eyes. He just squeezes her hand comfortingly. It’s okay, I’m not mad, He hopes she understands his silent message.

She squeeze his hand back.

“Joyce, I promise you’re not saying anything incriminating. I just want to you repeat what you just said. Just as a friend.”

Screw it, let’s rip the Band-Aid off. If the Chief of Hawkins Police can handle sneaking into a government lab by himself, then what’s worse than grave robbing with good intentions?

Wayne clears his throat, getting Hopper’s attention on him, “We already know about Will’s grave because Joyce and I dug it up last night.”

He keeps his own head up as Hopper’s snap towards him with saucers for eyes.

Joyce drops her hand from her mouth and almost-yells, “But that’s to check on who they actually buried! And you know what we found, Hop? It was fake. They literally made up Will’s body out of plastic!”

“I accidentally kicked the head off.” Wayne adds with a casual shrug. Not the best attempt to have the atmosphere light again, but sue him, he’s trying. “Bless the almighty above that there was only cotton stuffings instead of blood coming out.”

Usually, he doesn’t like watching the light be drained out of people’s eyes in real time. But this time will an exception because it’s actually kind of funny seeing Hopper go into some sort of existential crisis on the spot.

“Please don’t report this, Hop.” Joyce claps her hands together in a prayer gesture. “At least don’t tell anyone Wayne and I did it.”

“Oh, don’t worry…” Hopper barely mutters, his gaze now blankly staring at the table as if the object had just sucked his soul out.

“Hop?” Joyce leans in as if to poke him, but Wayne gently stops her. Shaking his head lightly, he says, “How about we fix ourselves some breakfast? I don’t remember the last time I ate, to be honest.”

They both stand back up, leaving Hopper on the couch. Wayne notes Joyce’s carefully-steeled face and nudges her. “You’re allowed to laugh, you know.”

Joyce quickly shakes her head, but he can see a smile already cracking through her face while she rubs over her arms. In fact, she looks almost a tad too gleeful, “I’m glad that I got to actually say that out loud.”

Then her face falls again to the chronic worrying expression, “I just hope our boys are doing okay right now.”

—

When Will stirs awake, the first thing he feels is Eddie’s heart beating against his ear from where his head had at some point moved on top of Eddie’s chest. Relieved, Will keeps his eyes closed, ready to continue sleeping.

And then he hears the raspy breathing.

Will sits up so quickly that, for a second, his vision turns black around the edges. Even in the dark, he sees Eddie rapidly blinking up with glossy eyes.

“Eddie?” Will places his hand on Eddie’s forehead, only to immediately pull it back. His skin is so hot that it burns through all of Will’s fingers. Oh no.

Will moves so he’s kneeling right beside Eddie’s head, already carefully brushing his hair away from his sweating face just like how Mom does it whenever he gets sick. The older boy trembles violently, either from the touch or the fever, Will doesn’t know. He tries to remember what Mom had always said on those sick days, finally settling on the most important question - “Are you feeling okay?”

Eddie answers with a small gurgle before throwing up over his jeans.

-

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